


Slumber Party Summons

by JoyAndOtherStories



Series: Slumber Party Summons and Aftereffects [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crowley gets summoned by teenagers, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, pining with a happy ending, slumber party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-09-25 04:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20370781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoyAndOtherStories/pseuds/JoyAndOtherStories
Summary: Written for Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, "Trip" prompt (and also for fun). Crowley gets Summoned by a teenage girls' slumber party. Everyone has far more on their minds than they've wanted to admit, even to their closest friends. Also, pajamas, hair and makeup, manicures.





	1. Jerked

**Author's Note:**

> I’m SUPER touched that @boughofawillowtree made a playlist for this fic!! Find it at: https://desperateground.tumblr.com/post/188356849635/slumber-party-summons-playlist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with artwork!! THANKS to anonymous user b for some absolutely PERFECT art of the OCs, now at the end of this chapter!!

Crowley was jerked awake.

Literally. He was pulled without warning from his bed, dragged through nothingness, blackness—

It was Hell, he thought, panicking, struggling fruitlessly—they’d come for him. Where was Aziraphale? Was he safe?

He landed in an undignified heap of limbs, untidy red hair, and black silk pajamas, on something hard and cold, some kind of confined space—

It wasn’t Hell.

He knew the feel of Hell, and this wasn’t it. Also, the lighting was wrong, too warm; and it was too muted and cluttered for Heaven—

Oh. This was a house. A _human’s _house. A finished basement, by the look of it, he thought as he struggled to his feet.

He’d been Summoned.

How irritating.

He pulled up his most terrifying Hellhound face, spun around—“WHO DARES—oh.” He let his face relapse into its usual configuration. “You’re kids.”

There were four of them, girls (probably), older than the currently 11-and-a-half-year-old Warlock but certainly not adults, wearing pajamas and currently recovering from having jumped several feet away from him and the pentagram trapping him.

“Um,” said the tallest one, a Black girl, athletic-looking, with strong features and thin braids (Crowley eyed them with interest), “foul fiend”—

“Don’t call me that,” he objected, but she overrode him—

“…we have summoned you from the pits of Hell—”

“You certainly have _not_,” he interrupted. “I was _asleep_. In my _bed. _And now you’re calling me _names_.” (Names that only one being could safely use for him.)

A second girl, almost comically shorter than the first one, cocked her head to one side. “I thought it would be scary, not sulky.” She was also Black, but rosy as opposed to the first one’s more chiseled look, with her hair in a neat round pouf. She gave off a bookish rather than an athletic air.

“Oh, I’m definitely sca—hang on a minute.” The girls sounded odd, and he’d just realized why. “Are you American?”

They looked at each other. “Of course we’re American,” said one of the remaining two. She was Latina with long, dark curly hair pulled into a ponytail that rivaled Crowley’s at its longest.

“Why do you sound like you’re from England?” asked the last one, who was white with a long sheet of blonde hair (a few shades darker than Aziraphale’s, Crowley noted automatically).

“I _am _from England. I mean I live there. London. Mayfair. Or Soho.” That was odd—he _didn’t _live in Soho; he just visited the bookshop—admittedly as much as possible in these past few months since Armageddon didn’t happen; in fact, he was due there this morning for—

“Breakfast!” he shouted.

The girls jumped. “What?” asked the tall one blankly. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I said I’d bring him breakfast,” Crowley muttered. “Wait—what time did you say it is?”

“Eleven-thirty.”

“At night? No—that can’t be right—it was eleven-thirty before I went to sleep.” He’d made himself leave the bookshop for once, climbed into his own bed around midnight.

“It’s eleven-thirty _here_,” said the short bookish girl. “This is Atlanta. We’re on Eastern time.”

He looked at her blankly. “Atlanta?” This took some seconds to process. “You mean in America? Ha! That explains the accents.” He ignored the looks the girls were now giving him. “That means it’s…Nnghkh, I can’t do time zones. Humans, always trying to cut time up into neat little slices. What time is it in London?”

“Four-thirty a.m.,” said the bookish girl without hesitation.

“Alright,” he said with relief. “Haven’t missed breakfast, then.” He had his phone out anyway, was automatically pulling up Aziraphale’s number before he realized the phone had no signal, at all—normally never a problem for him, since if he imagined there should be a signal, there was—“Aarrghhh,” he groaned, running his hand through his bed-skewed hair. “Of course there’s no signal; I’m in a bloody pentagram.” If a phone signal could get out, so could he, technically. So of course the pentagram wouldn’t allow that.

“Wait,” came an American teenager’s voice from outside his small prison, “you have a _smartphone_?”

“Of course I have a smartphone; d’you think I’d still be using a flip phone?” he retorted, hitting the call button anyway (nothing happened).

“Demons use phones?”

“Of course demons—well…ehhh”—he thought of Hastur demanding what a computer was—“it varies.”

“So, you’re calling another demon?” one of the teenagers asked suspiciously.

“What? No, of course I’m not calling another demon; what would I want one of them for?” Crowley rotated around in the pentagram, angling the phone, pointlessly trying to find a spot that had a signal. “I’m calling my friend. Or, _not _calling. Not calling him or anyone else. Aaagghh!” He flung the useless phone down. It didn’t break, because he had decided long ago that his phone was very tough (at least that still worked). What it _did _do was slide across the smooth floor right out of the pentagram.

“Nnnngh,” he said weakly, watching it slide to a stop well outside the clear but very solid wall, still showing Aziraphale’s name with the flame background (flaming sword, get it?).

The blonde girl picked up the phone. “Your friend is...Azire”—

“Aziraphale,” Crowley snarled before she could mangle the angel’s name.

“Aziraphale,” several voices repeated carefully. “And you said he’s not a demon?”

“Definitely not,” Crowley snapped, working hard to conceal how uncomfortable he felt with someone else holding his phone. “He’s an angel,” he added without meaning to.

“An angel?” the girls echoed.

“Yes, an _angel_,”—Crowley rolled his eyes—“celestial being, ethereal entity, supernatural something or other—whatever you like.” He leaned against the nearly-invisible side of the pentagram to keep himself from trying to pace, since there wasn’t any room for pacing anyway.

“Okay,” said the tall girl, “you’re saying there are demons living in London”—

“_A _demon. Singular,” Crowley corrected.

“Demons with smartphones,” someone else continued.

“And also that there are angels living in London,” another one added.

“Just the one angel,” Crowley said through his teeth.

“And that the angels and the demons are friends?”

“The singular angel and the singular demon are friends,” noted the bookish girl.

“Yes,” Crowley said defiantly, having waited 6000 years to be able to say so in public, “we’re _friends_. An angel and a demon are friends. Do you have a problem with that?”

They looked at each other, shrugging. “No,” said the tall one. “Just wouldn’t have thought angels and demons would get along, really.”

“They don’t. At all.”

“Thanks; that really clears things up,” muttered someone.

“If angels and demons don’t get along, then how are you friends with this…Aziraphale?” asked the blonde one.

“That’s a _really _long story,” said Crowley, “and we are _not _getting into it. Look, he and I _are _friends; that’s a thing. And I’m supposed to bring breakfast to his bookshop this morning, and if I don’t turn up, he’s going to be worried, and believe me, you _don’t _want a worried angel on your hands. Just—just give me my phone back, and send me back, and we’ll pretend like this didn’t happen.”

They looked at each other again, and he knew it wasn’t going to be that simple.

“Why don’t we just call him from out here, and you can talk to him on speakerphone?” suggested the ponytailed girl, practically.

“Ah…ehhhhaalright,” consented Crowley feebly. It was far from ideal, but if it let him talk to Aziraphale, he’d take it.

“You can’t call him in the middle of the night,” objected the blonde girl, who appeared to share Aziraphale’s commitment to rules of etiquette.

“It’s fine; he won’t be asleep,” Crowley assured them. “Just call him, please. I’m asking nicely. Work with me.”

It was the tall one who took the phone and pressed the call button. It rang a considerable number of times; Crowley worked to suppress his increasing anxiety by imagining Aziraphale making his way out of the back room, winding between tables and shelves, frowning suspiciously at the ringing phone—

“Er…hello?” came his friend’s voice, warily.

“Angel!” Crowley said, and had to pause, swallowing—he was shockingly relieved and reassured by the sound of Aziraphale’s voice.

“Crowley! What is it? Are you alright?” Of course getting a call from him at four in the morning would make Aziraphale panic; Crowley should have anticipated—

“I’m fine, I’m fine—calm down, angel; it’s fine.”

“Where are you? What’s happening?”

“It’s _fine_—I mean, I’ve been Summoned, but—”

“Oh no! Crowley! What do you mean? Is it—is it Hell? What…what do they…want?” The fear in Aziraphale’s voice was shattering. “Where are you? I’ll come to you—”

“No—no, angel, it’s fine; I promise it’s fine; it’s not that kind of summoning—it’s not Hell. I’m fine—don’t worry, please, angel.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could picture him, standing by the table with the ancient phone, a hand pressed to his heart, closing his eyes and trying to take calming breaths, “please tell me where you are and what’s going on.”

“I _will_, if you’ll stop interrupting me”—banter; their everyday banter would calm the angel down, surely—“I’ve been Summoned—by—you know, by humans.” This was suddenly embarrassing, and he hadn’t even gotten to the “teenagers’ slumber party” part yet. “With a pentagram and a spell book and everything.”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, the panic easing out of his voice, replaced by sympathy. “How dreadfully inconvenient for you.” He paused, then, delicately: “Shall I come…liberate you?”

“Ehhnngh,” Crowley deliberated, imagining Aziraphale swooping to his rescue through the phone lines, his own personal avenging angel, freeing him from—

Four teenagers in pajamas.

Four teenagers in pajamas who were now, he noted, whispering to each other and looking at him in an entirely new way, that he didn't understand but was sure he did not like.

“I don’t…I don’t think it’s necessary,” he told Aziraphale. “I’m not in danger. Probably. It’s just—breakfast. I might not be…ah, finished here in time to bring breakfast like I said. I just didn’t want you to worry. Wanted you to know where I was.” That was already more than he’d meant to say; he pressed his lips together to keep himself from adding anything else—for instance, how badly he’d needed to be sure Aziraphale was safe as well, even though there was absolutely no reason he wouldn’t be; the way the fact that there was an entire ocean between them kept making him go cold all over—

“We’re not going to hurt him,” the tall girl interjected toward the phone, indignantly; the others chimed in similarly.

“Oh!” came Aziraphale’s voice, with the special tone to it that he added when dealing with technology, “You can hear me?”

“Agh, yes,” Crowley jumped in, “you’re on speakerphone; sorry, Aziraphale.”

“Oh my, how marvelous,” Aziraphale replied happily. “Wait—Crowley—are they _children_?”

“A—a bit, yeah.” Crowley rubbed his face.

“I see.” Then, thoughtfully: “Can I speak to them again?”

“You _are _speaking to them.” Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Ah. Yes. Well, then—what were your names, my dears?”

“Maya,” answered the tall one.

“Kasey.”

“Kami.”

“Reya.”

“How lovely,” Aziraphale replied. Crowley heard—though the girls probably could not—a certain hardness under the angel’s tone that made his eyebrows shoot up in alarm. “I’m afraid you’ve kidnapped my friend,” Aziraphale continued.

“We didn’t _kidnap _him,” said Maya, blinking. “We Summoned him.”

“My dear, if someone took you from your home in the middle of the night and put you in a room you could not get out of, what would you call that?”

The girls all looked at each other. “Uh…”

“Precisely,” said Aziraphale. How did that smiling voice sound so cold? “Now, since he says he’s not in danger, I’m willing to—ah—well, temporarily overlook that, so long as you return him safely.” Crowley frowned momentarily, his brain conjuring up the image of himself as a package. “I must say that I’m already quite put out that he might miss our breakfast. I really must insist on seeing him for lunch today at the latest. If I don’t—well. I’m afraid I will be forced to…pay you a visit.”

The girls looked at each other with confused smiles, which Crowley couldn’t understand—_he _was having to fight the urge to back to the corner of his pentagram farthest away from the phone and the angel’s voice.

“Okay,” said Maya, not quite keeping a patronizing note out of her voice. “We’ll get him back safely. Don’t worry. You won’t need to…um…visit.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale’s voice came through the phone with a kind of patience that sent chills down Crowley’s spine, “my friend Crowley is a demon. You understand that, of course, since you Summoned him. I, on the other hand, am an angel. A principality, to be precise. Have you heard of…holy wrath, perhaps?”

The girls blinked at each other. “Not really.”

“Smiting, possibly?”

More noncomprehension.

“Sodom and Gomorrah?”

This finally raised a chorus of uncomfortable understanding from the teenagers.

“Ah, there we are. You see, that was done by angels. Acquaintances of mine, in fact.” Was he comparing himself to _Sandalphon_? “And though I can’t say I approve of their actions—in fact, even at the time, I had grave concerns—that should help you understand that a visit from an angel is not necessarily something you would enjoy. Am I explaining myself clearly?” The voice was not at all reminiscent of a comfortable, somewhat anxious bookshop keeper, but rather an ethereal guardian wielding a flaming sword.

The girls’ smiles had vanished. “Um,” said Maya. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” The cheery tone was back, but the steel and the flame were by no means gone. “Let me speak to my friend again, please.”

“I’m right here, angel.” Crowley’s own voice sounded hoarse.

“Ah, hello, Crowley.” The usual warmth was back. “I’ll see you for lunch, then?” Still a hint of the steel, actually.

“Yep,” Crowley replied immediately. “Absolutely. Lunch. See you then. Definitely.”

“Quite,” came the angel’s voice. “Ta-ta, then.”

Silence fell for a few moments after they hung up. The girls looked at Crowley; Crowley looked back at the girls.

“Your friend is kinda scary,” said one of the ones who wasn’t Maya.

“Honestly, usually he’s the nice one,” Crowley said, spreading his hands. “I don’t know what got into him.”

The girls exchanged glances like maybe they had a pretty good idea, which wasn’t fair; they hadn’t even met Aziraphale in person, while Crowley had known him for six millennia.

“Does he have to rescue you a lot?” asked another one, probably Kami or Kasey.

“No!” spluttered Crowley. “Alright, it’s _happened_, but it’s supposed to be—ehhgh—it’s usually the other way ‘round. I got him out of the Bastille during the Reign of Terror—uh, do you know what the Reign of Terror…?”—eye-rolling nods from four teenagers—“Nazi book thieves—that was a fun one—agh, why am I telling you about—we’ll be here all night and I’ll miss lunch if I list all of them.”

“Well, you can’t miss lunch, or your boyfriend will come smite us,” said the bookish one.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Crowley said automatically, breaking his own heart, as usual.

This was met with more eye-rolling, except from one of the girls—the medium-height white one. Kami. Maybe. “I told you,” she said to the other girls. “They’re in deep denial.”

“Denial?” Crowley snapped. “What are you talking about?”

“You have to be kidding!” Another one—Reya, possibly—threw up her hands and walked away.

“He’s not…” Crowley started. “We’re not… Why would you think that…we’re…?”

The room was full of sighs and knowing glances.

“He’s going to turn us into salt or whatever if we’re not nice to you.”

“You just said how you rescue each other all the time.”

“You call him _angel_.”

“I—don’t be ridiculous,” Crowley blustered. “First of all, I call him angel because he _is _an angel, literally—it’s not some kind of—” he choked. Then he coughed. Repeatedly. “It’s not because—” he tried again, but this time it was worse; he ended up sitting on the floor, gasping, his eyes streaming. He could hear the girls offering panicked, contradictory advice—“Just keep coughing!” “Take deep breaths!” “Do you need some water?” “Someone needs to hit his back!”

“What,” he wheezed up at Maya, the lead demon-summoning girl, who was staring at him with huge, worried eyes, “did you do?”

“What? Nothing! You were talking and all of a sudden you were choking!”

“No—with your stupid book, and your penta—gah”—he coughed some more.

“I summoned you. That’s all.”

“No…you did something else. I mean something _also_. Something _in addition_.”

“I don’t know; I just read the spell!”

“Errrghhh! What d’you want to go around saying spells when you don’t even know what they are? Show it to me.”

They refused, which was probably one of the more sensible things they’d done that night, but he wasn’t having it. “Don’t be ridiculous; I can’t use a summoning spell. I _am _the demon—I _get _summoned. I could say the dam—the blessed words until someone hears me and records it and sells it as a Gregorian chant, and it wouldn’t summon a bloody maggot from Beelzebub’s toilet.”

Eventually, after a good deal of suspicious conferring, they held up the book so he could see the spell.

“Ngghh,” he complained, squinting at it, “Latin. You realize how long it’s been since I’ve read Latin? No, of course you don’t. And of course none of you can read Latin.”

“I can,” said the bookish girl with the round pouf of hair. Kasey.

Crowley blinked at her (a rare occurrence). “What are you talking about? Nobody speaks Latin anymore outside of the Vatican—not that I would know what they speak inside the Vatican. For all I know, they’ve upgraded to Coptic or something. You’re not a priest, are you? Pretty sure you aren’t a priest. I’d have noticed.”

She waited for him to wind down, like a teacher who would one day reach the end of their patience. “I’ve taken Latin since I was a freshman,” she said coolly. “The spell just talked about ‘calling up a fallen spirit to this soil,’ something about ‘unbreakable walls,’ something about locks and truth—”

“Errrrrrgh! A truth lock! That’s—that’s—that’s…actually, that’s a reasonably good idea. Whoever wrote that spell was…not entirely stupid.”

“What’s a truth lock?” asked a number of voices.

“It’s…like it sounds,” he said, peering at them. “I can’t lie while I’m in here. What d’you think a truth lock is?”

“Oh, like a truth field,” said Kami (_blonde, medium height, thinks of herself as a relationship expert, _Crowley catalogued). “You know, like in that one episode with the planet where everybody had to tell the truth.”

“Episode? What episode?” Crowley asked, lost. “What _planet_?”

“Nope!” said Reya (_curly ponytail, medium height, practical_), holding up a shushing finger in Kami’s direction. “Don’t get her started; we really will be here all night.”

“Um,” said Crowley, “right.” He shook his head vigorously. Maybe he should be glad his nanny duties for Warlock ended before the boy had become a teenager; they seemed unreasonably confusing. “Can we…I don’t know, get on with it? You summoned me for a reason, right? Besides for stealing my phone?”

“Right,” said Maya, drawing herself up. Her full height wasn’t much shorter than Crowley’s. “You have to, to”—he could feel her uncertainty, but she was putting up a confident face—“give us each what we request, and then we’ll release you.”

He leaned against the wall of his pentagram, finally recovering some of his usual swagger. “That’s a _genie_,” he said disdainfully. “You still don’t know what you’re working with here. I’m a demon. We don’t grant wishes. You call up a demon, you’re making a bargain. You’ve heard the phrase ‘deal with the devil?’ Well”—he pointed to himself with both hands—“guess what I am!”

They finally looked something approaching appropriately nervous, for the first time since the phone call with Aziraphale.

“So,” said one of them, “do you mean we have to…sell you our souls, or something?”

“What?” He was nonplussed. “No! What would I do with your souls? It’s not like I can put them in a wallet. ‘_Oh look, here’s my little soul collection Rolodex._’ No—I mean, you have to perform a service. Do a…a task.”

“Like what?” said Maya, suspiciously.

“I don’t know,” he said, flinging his arms out—well, as much as he could. “We’ll figure it out. It’s not like I get summoned every week and keep a to-do list sitting around for potential summoners. The last time was…I don’t know. Centuries ago.”

“What did you make them do?” asked Kasey the bookish one.

“Uhhergh…” Crowley tried to remember. “Nostradamus!”

“You got summoned by _Nostradamus_?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous—some other human. He had some original Nostradamus text. A rough draft or something.”

“So you made him give it to you? And what did you do for him?”

“Uhh…” Crowley was distracted by the memory of Aziraphale pulling on gloves to gently caress the Nostradamus text. “He had…a kid. Ah! His son was sick. That was it. Would have died in a couple of weeks. Fixed it.”

Maya, his current summoner, frowned at him. “You saved his son’s life, and all you got out of it was a book?”

“It was a collection of unpublished Nostradamus prophecies,” Crowley said defensively.

“You’re into prophecies?” Maya had eyebrows that were very good at skepticism.

“Of course,” Crowley meant to say—

“No,” his mouth said. He’d forgotten the truth lock. “Eurghhhh,” he groaned. “It wasn’t for me, alright? It’s not impor—” He stopped himself, feeling the truth lock threatening to clamp down on his throat.

“Ohh,” said Kami. “It was for _Aziraphale_.” She was grinning in an aggravatingly knowing way.

“Shut up,” Crowley growled.

Now all four girls were _sharing _the aggravating grin. “Alright,” said Kami, the lead romantic, innocently.

“_Forget it_.” Crowley gave his best attempt at menacing. The only effect it produced was muffled giggles as the girls arranged themselves across the furniture—Maya with her legs tucked under her in a massive and disreputable armchair, the other three draped across a faded, very squashy-looking couch.

For some reason, Crowley was suddenly hit with a fresh pang of missing Aziraphale.

“Look,” he said, in a pointless attempt to shake it off, “this pentagram—I mean, it’s very solid, good work, congratulations—but it’s _really _uncomfortable. Can I…I don’t know, get a chair or something? And not one of those hard ones either.” He gestured at some plain, straight-backed wooden ones in a corner. “Something comfortable.”

“Seriously?” said Kasey (_hair in pouf, short, intellectual_, he continued his mental catalogue).

“_Can _we put a chair in there?” Maya wondered. (Crowley already had her identified, but just to round things out, mentally noted _braids, tall, athletic._) The question seemed to be directed at Kasey, but Crowley intercepted it.

“Just don’t knock over the candles; it’ll be fine,” he sighed, with an eye roll of his own. “It’s not real—I mean it _is _real, it’s extra-real—err, metaphysical, different plane of reality, supern—ah, whatever, look, chairs don’t affect it, and it doesn’t affect chairs. Or, you know, phones. Like mine. That you’ve stolen.”

Kami looked slightly guilty about this; the others had no trouble ignoring the hint. But they did procure a chair that was reasonably comfortable. Crowley slouched into it, his feet propped up on the opposite wall of his pentagram.

“That’s better,” he decided. “Wait!”

At least a couple of them jumped. Maya rolled her eyes. “Do you _always _do that?”

“Wine!” he said. “That’s what’s missing. Got any wine?”

All eyes went to Maya. “Uh,” she said doubtfully, “my dad keeps some Jack Daniels around, but I’d definitely be in trouble if he noticed some was missing…”

“Nope, nope, never mind,” Crowley backpedaled. “Alcohol when I’m in a truth lock is a really terrible idea.” Also, as much as tempting teenagers to raid their parents’ liquor stash was appealing, they were hard enough to deal with when they were sober. “What about…coffee?” He knew better than to ask Americans for tea. “Got any coffee? Since apparently you’re going to be keeping me up all night.”

There was coffee. It was tolerable. Maya brought it to him in a mug that said “Not Today Satan.”

“Really?” he demanded.

She said nothing, just cocked an eyebrow. He scowled (to keep his grin from showing), and made a mental note to order one of those mugs for Aziraphale.

The Girls!

From left to right: Reya, Kasey, Kami, Maya.

(by anonymous user b--THANKS!!!!)


	2. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody's lying except the demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is my first time to post on AO3, and I honestly didn't really expect comments! So, thanks! Y'all are great, and I love the Good Omens fandom!

“Alright,” Crowley said expansively, reclining and gesturing with the coffee mug (Maya’s eyes followed its precarious progress with alarm). “Let’s get down to business.” He pointed at Maya, back in her armchair. “Coffee girl. Lead demon-summoner.”—He poured as much sarcasm as he could into that—“What do you want from your humble kidnapped demon?”

“Basketball scholarship,” she said promptly.

“Basketball scholarship,” he repeated slowly. This didn’t feel right, somehow.

“Yes,” she said firmly. She listed details that didn’t mean much to Crowley. Something still seemed off, though, and it wasn’t anything to do with his lack of knowledge of American schools. He decided to come back to her later.

“Ok, next. The professor here.”

Kasey raised her eyebrows at the nickname, then shrugged. “I need to get A’s in all my classes this semester.”

“You mean without working?”

“Of course not!” she retorted, offended. “Just...you know, get A’s. I have scholarships to worry about too.”

Somehow this also seemed less than convincing. Crowley frowned and moved on.

“The sensible one. Ponytail girl.”

“I need a car,” said Reya.

“A car. A specific kind of car? Highly expensive and dangerously fast?”

“Don’t be stupid; I couldn’t afford the insurance,” she replied. “Just a normal car. One that runs well and isn’t going to break down all the time.”

He gave her a head-tilted look. “Honestly, just because I said you were sensible doesn’t mean you have to overdo it.” But even something about this request seemed…inaccurate. What was wrong with these girls? “Alright, last one. Hopeless romantic girl.”

Kami swallowed. “I want Alex Odom to like me.”

This time, the lie was so pronounced that it was practically painful. Crowley took a slow sip of mediocre coffee, eyeing all four of them. They eyed him back apprehensively.

“This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous. All of you.” He stood up, really wishing he had room to pace. “Every one of you is lying.”

A chorus of protest broke out. Crowley drank some coffee and waited until it ceased.

“Still lying,” he said calmly. “Let’s start with you.” He pointed to Maya again. “You don’t want a basketball scholarship.”

“Yes I do,” she snapped. “Basketball is what I do. I’m good at it, and I need a scholarship. Why would you think I’m lying?”

“I don’t _think _you’re lying. I’m a demon. Sins are my thing. I _know _when you’re lying.” He sat, now on the back of the chair with his feet on the seat cushion. “Let’s try again. What else do you do, besides basketball?”

She shrugged. “Just normal stuff.” Now the lie was more clear.

“She’s an artist,” Kami spoke up. “She’s really good.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Kasey, while Reya nodded.

“Here’s one she did today,” added Kami, unearthing herself from the couch and padding across the room. “She wanted to practice sketching hands, so I said she could use mine as a model.”

The drawing was in pencil, detailed and intimate, and gave Crowley a _sense _of something—a familiar and also painful feeling that he moved away from as quickly as possible.

“You enjoy doing this?” he asked Maya.

“Of course I enjoy it.” She folded her arms. “But it’s a hobby, not a career.”

“You sound like your dad,” Kami sighed.

“You’re going to make a career out of basketball?” Crowley asked skeptically.

“No,” Maya retorted. “I’m going to get a _scholarship _out of basketball. I’m going to get a career out of whatever I major in. Engineering, probably.”

He felt the dull sense of gloom that settled somewhere in her chest at the idea of an engineering career.

“You summoned a demon,” he said slowly, “to make sure you get a career that you don’t want?”

She shrugged, glaring at him.

He had some ideas, but they would be tricky. “I’ll come back to you. Next—straight-A’s girl. Or, girl who wants straight A’s as long as she _has_ to work for them.” He gave Kasey a look with some eyebrow activity that he hoped rivaled Maya’s (he was wrong). “You do realize that there is no chance on this plane of reality—or literally any plane of reality—that you would get anything other than straight A’s?”

“That’s what _I _said,” agreed Reya, joined by the usual affirmative chorus from the others.

Kasey didn’t quite meet his eyes. “You never know,” she shrugged, then paused and peered at him. “Or do you?”

“Huh?” said Crowley. “Oh—no, of course I don’t know the future. This just seems fairly—”

“Obvious,” noted Maya.

“Exactly,” Crowley said, gesturing in her direction.

Kasey was avoiding everybody’s eyes now. “I had to choose something. Who wouldn’t want guaranteed A’s?”

“You’re still mostly lying,” Crowley complained. He sighed and delved deeper into her mind, past the lie, aiming for whatever lay underneath it, and found there an intensity, a drive—his favorite human drive, really, that wild thirst for knowledge he’d first found in Eve—

“Ohh,” he said softly. “You didn’t summon a demon to get straight A’s. You summoned a demon…to summon a demon.” He knew he’d hit the right answer as she lifted her chin defiantly. “You just wanted to know if you could do it.”

“What are you talking about?” Maya demanded. “This was my idea.”

“Possibly,” Crowley said, not taking his eyes off Kasey, “but tell me something—where did the book come from?”

It was Kasey who answered, every line of her previously mild-looking body radiating annoyance at him. “My mom. She’s a professor. Anthropology. She gets weird stuff sometimes.”

“Yep,” said Crowley. “And did you all say the spell together?”

“Sure,” replied Maya, the group spokesperson. “We thought that would give it more power or whatever.”

“Nnnng, well, one of you gave it more power, anyway,” said Crowley. “I should have remembered sooner—you couldn’t have made all of this work without a witch.”

“A witch?” This was from Reya. “Are we in Harry Potter?”

“Definitely _not_,” Crowley said firmly. “Tell me—anyone except book girl—what do you see when you look at your pentagram? What’s in between you and me?”

“Um, candles?”

“Not on the _floor_,” Crowley grumbled. “Right here.” He put his hand on the wall of his pentagram, which to him was more like a pane of glass than anything else. “What do you see here?”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Me either.”

“I thought it would look cooler, honestly.”

Crowley looked at Kasey, who’d stayed silent, and raised his eyebrows.

She sighed. “You know like when the sun comes through the clouds, and you can see the sunbeam in a…like, a shaft of light, all the way from the clouds to the ground? It’s like that. The whole star, floor to ceiling, like walls made of sunbeams. I can’t touch them—I mean, they don’t feel like anything—but I can see them.”

The other three girls blinked at her. “Whoa,” Kami summed up.

“Yer a wizard, Kasey,” Reya added.

“Shut up,” said Kasey, wriggling herself deeper into the couch.

“You’re just seeing aaaa…different plane of reality, that’s all,” Crowley explained. “You can call yourself an occultist if you like. I know someone who does. In fact…” He sat back in the chair properly (that was, not remotely properly) and thought through several details. “Alright,” he said. “I _could _waste a demonic miracle on straight A’s that, left to your own devices, you’d have to work to _not _get. _Or_, I could put you in touch with someone who can actually train you. Or at least give you advice. Help you figure out your…abilities or whatever you want to call them, before you kill anyone or drag any more perfectly innocent demons out of bed in the middle of the night.” He doubted whether any demons, including himself, fit this description, but that wasn’t the point.

“And what do you get in return?” she asked, with narrowed eyes.

“That book.” He pointed at the spellbook, with its cracked spine, faded cover, and mysterious writing just begging to be moved into a cluttered bookshop watched over by—

“What? That’s my mom’s,” Kasey objected. But he could feel the knowledge thirst rushing furiously through her.

“Going to notice it’s gone, is she?” he asked.

Kasey pressed her lips together. “…no,” she admitted. “What do _you _want it for?”

Crowley opened his mouth—and paused, a tightening in his throat reminding him of the truth lock. “D’you think I want a set of demon-summoning instructions out here for any random human to pick up?”

Kasey’s eyes were very good at narrowing. “Didn’t you say it only works if the human has…some kind of power? It’s not like _anyone _could just pick it up and summon you.”

“That’s not the point,” said Crowley. “The point is”—again his throat threatened him—“the point—nope, not that either—ehh, well, it needs to go to a good—historic value, y’know? Be taken care of…”

“Oh,” said Kami. “It’s for Aziraphale.”

The shared aggravating grins were back. Crowley clamped his lips together and crossed his arms.

“Oh, well. If it’s for _Aziraphale_.” Kasey managed to escape from the couch. She brought the book to the edge of the pentagram and then paused. “How does this work? You do your thing and then I hand it to you?”

“Definitely not. You hand it to me and then I do my thing.”

She looked skeptical. “How do I know you won’t take it and then refuse to do my part?”

Crowley waved his hands at the glass-but-not-glass walls around him. “You’ve kidnapped me, remember? I can’t leave until you say.”

She gazed at him while she mulled it over, then finally handed him the book.

“Alright,” he said, tucking the book into a pocket he’d just miracled into his black pajamas. “We’re in business. Bring me my phone.”

“You do miracles with your _phone_?”

“What? No, I don’t do—how would I do miracles with a phone? It doesn’t even have a signal.” He massaged his head. “I’m sending you a contact.”

His contacts, besides Aziraphale and restaurants liked by Aziraphale, contained approximately four humans. He stopped at one of these and handed it back to Kasey.

“What’s an anathema device?” she asked, startling Crowley by pronouncing “anathema” correctly.

“She’s a person. From Calcutta. No, that can’t be right. Calgary? Colorado? The one with the oceans and lots of earthquakes. Not Pompeii, though.”

“California?”

“California! …Probably. Sure.”

“I can’t just go to California,” Kasey told him.

“Wouldn’t do you any good anyway. She lives in Tadfield.”

“Where’s…you know what, never mind. I’ll just call her.” She waited for a few seconds. “Is…that it?”

“That was the deal,” he reminded her. “You give me the book, I give you a training opportunity. Is that not enough for you?”

“Uh…no, no, it’s fine. It’s great. Um…thanks.” She went back to her seat on the couch, leaving Crowley with the sense of having been…a letdown.

“Oh, one more thing,” he said casually. “You know that physics exam you have coming up?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not taking physics.”

“Ehhhh…some class—what’s the one with bodies?”

“Biology?”

“Biology. Huh. Funny name. Anyway, you’re going to have to identify all the bones of a human.” He tilted his head. “Pretty sure it’s a human. So be sure you study that.”

Kasey permitted herself to look very slightly impressed.


	3. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley can't fix what he wants to fix...but he's not alone.

“Next!” Crowley shouted. Nobody jumped. He pretended he wasn’t disappointed. “_Really _excessively responsible girl.” He pointed to Reya. “Why do you want a car?”

“Who wouldn’t want a car?”

“In this room, apparently everyone except the two of us,” he answered. “Should I be asking why the rest of you _don’t _want a car?”

“Too expensive.”

“Cars are destroying the planet.”

“I mean, just use MARTA.”

Reya looked exasperated, and possibly embarrassed. “MARTA only works in Atlanta.”

“I have literally no idea what you’re talking about,” Crowley broke in. “Who’s Marta?”

“Like the Metro in London,” Kami translated, although Crowley had no idea how she would know that. “Anyway, she wants a car so she can visit her _boyfriend_.” She didn’t exactly roll her eyes, but it was heavily implied. In fact, the mention of Reya’s boyfriend had created a current of disapproval in the room strong enough that Crowley had to suppress a shiver.

“And this boy lives…” Crowley prompted.

“He and his family moved to Augusta last summer.”

Augusta meant nothing to Crowley, who tried, unsuccessfully, not to think of last summer—a flaming bookshop and time frozen on an airfield and “shut your stupid mouth and die already” and “to the world”—or of the pleasant, _really quite pleasant _three or four months of now-public friendship since then—

“And _he’s _only visited _her _twice since then.”

“Three times!” argued Reya.

“Thanksgiving doesn’t count; you didn’t even see him.”

“It’s not fair for me to expect him to do all the visiting—that’s why I need the car, so I can drive there, we can alternate—”

“You’ll miss too many weekend shifts and get fired—”

“And there are plenty of boys in Atlanta—”

“Well, none of them want to date me!”

“STOP!” Crowley put a touch of fire into his voice. They stopped. “That’s the first thing you’ve said that hasn’t been a lie.”

“That nobody wants to date her?” Maya sputtered. “That’s definitely _not _true.” Three pairs of eyes—everyone’s except Reya’s—were now focused on him with outright hostility.

“I didn’t say it was true,” Crowley replied. “I said it wasn’t a lie.”

“That’s…the same…thi…”

“_You _think it’s true. Your little mind _thinks _you’re not lying. That’s not the same thing as it being true in reality.”

He said it with light scorn, but he’d caught the layer underneath Reya’s lie now, a hollow core of desperation, that spot that’s empty except for the voice that tells you you’re not worth it, nobody _really _wants you, if anyone’s settled for you, you’d better cling as tightly as you can, because you won’t get another chance—

Turning away, he nearly crashed into a corner of his pentagram in his haste to extract himself—

He couldn’t fix that. That wasn’t in Hell’s purview. He couldn’t even fix the same thing in himself, for…someone’s sake.

“So what you actually need”—he forced his usual cool, sarcastic cloak back on—“is not a _car _so much as someone to fix your love life.”

“It doesn’t need _fixing_, it just needs…a little practical assistance,” Reya protested.

“More lying,” Crowley muttered, shoving his hand through his hair, but then regarded her more closely. “No—I was wrong—well, a little. Not as wrong as you. What needs fixing isn’t your love life, and I do need assistance.”

“What are you talking about?”

He propped himself on the arm of the chair. “You’ll have to…trust me—which is something I would never recommend, actually.”

She rolled her eyes. Crowley wondered if humans kept track of a world record for number of eye rolls in one room. “Whatever,” she sighed. “What’s my end of the deal? What do I have to do?”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Right. Nnng…what _do _you do?”

“I…uh…”

“She’s really good at doing nails,” Kami piped up, holding up her own as evidence. Reya sent her a look as though she’d lost her mind.

“Let me see,” said Crowley with interest. Kami’s nails were indeed well done, though in a glittery shade of blue that suited her but would definitely not suit him. “What colors do you have?”

Reya shook her head like someone shaking water out of their ears (Crowley didn’t know what this felt like, as he always miracled away any water that dared to even consider entering his ears, but had seen humans doing it) and produced a small tub fully stocked with manicuring supplies and an impressive color range of polishes. “That’ll work,” said Crowley, having spotted a few shades of black. “Errr”—he really should have worked this out sooner, but he hadn’t thought any farther than acquiring the spellbook—“what do the rest of you do?”

They exchanged doubtful glances.

“Hair and makeup?” suggested Kami for herself.

“Do you braid?” Crowley asked.

“Not to the scalp; I can’t do cornrows,” she said promptly. “But I do a good French braid, or a half-down half-up, or…” She trailed off, looking at him critically. “But yours isn’t really long enough.”

Crowley had been letting his hair grow at (probably) the normal human rate since the not-pocalypse, strictly for purposes of variety and definitely not because Aziraphale had made a passing comment about the longer style “suiting you very nicely.” This seemed as good a chance as any to speed it up some. He ran his hands through it (entirely for effect; the miracle didn’t need any sort of gesture); and as they slid through, it lengthened, spilling down in red curls well past his shoulders.

“Wow, I should have asked for _that_!” Kami said delightedly.

“Alright, then,” Crowley said. “Book—already paid up.” (He pointed at Kasey). “Nails,” (he nodded toward Reya), “hair and makeup,” (Kami), “and…?” he looked to Maya.

Her tall forehead was furrowed. “I could…do your portrait?”

“Huh,” he said. “Right, sure, that’ll be fi”—the truth lock shut him down.

“Or not,” said Maya as he worked to clear his throat.

“It’s a good idea,” he wheezed, took a sip of coffee, choked again—he’d let it get cold. He miracled it warm and took another sip.

“Except that you don’t want it,” Maya observed with one of those impressive eyebrows elegantly raised.

Crowley winced and gave up pretense. “I don’t want a portrait of _me_.”

“Ohh,” said Kami, predictably. “He wants one of”—this time they actually _chorused_—“Aziraphale.”

Crowley sipped more coffee and glared into the mug until they stopped giggling.

“You have a picture of him on your phone, right?” Maya asked when she’d settled a bit.

“Oh, I can do better than that,” he said. “I think. But we’ll get to it later.” He turned to Reya. “Let’s get back to not-fixing your love life, far-too-stable-for-your-own-good girl.”

Reya looked up in surprise from prepping nail supplies. “I thought you said we had to do our part of the bargain first?”

“Ohh…it doesn’t matter.” Crowley waved an arm vaguely. “Easier to do all that later.”

“Okay,” she said disapprovingly, “but I don’t think you’re being very responsible.”

“Well, you’d know,” he retorted. What had _happened _to teenagers? They should be taking cross-country joyrides, not worrying about car insurance rates and lecturing 6000-year-old supernatural entities on responsibility. “Besides, I’m a demon. I’m _supposed _to be…not-responsible.”

“Wait,” interjected Maya, “If I’m going to draw Aziraphale, I need _something_. At least enough so I can do a warm-up sketch.”

Crowley knotted his hands in his hair, remembered there was a lot more of it now, took his hands back out. “Ehhhh, fine.” Come to think of it, this would be good practice for what he was about to attempt for Reya. He put his hand on the pentagram wall. “Watch the”—he remembered nobody except Kasey could see the wall—“errr…watch here-ish.” He waved his other hand in a circle in front of him. Concentrating on Aziraphale, he focused on projecting his memory onto the metaphysical wall. “Does anybody see anything?”

This got him three blank looks, but—“I do.” Kasey’s eyes widened, focused on the same part of the pentagram wall where Crowley could now see a translucent image of Aziraphale’s face. He swallowed. His brain had produced _that _moment during _that _lunch at the Ritz—“To the world,” he saw Aziraphale’s lips forming, with that meltingly warm smile—he made himself look away from Aziraphale’s lips.

“Tell me you see a…aaaaa sort of cushiony-looking fellow with blonde hair, raising a glass,” he said tautly.

“That’s the one,” said Kasey.

“Alright. Try to help your friends see it. Pull it into the normal human plane of reality or something.”

“How do I do that?” she demanded.

“I have no idea.”

She sighed, with yet another eye roll, hauled herself out of the couch cushions again, and raised her hand to the image floating on the not-glass wall. Unfortunately, her hand just went through it. “I can’t…”

Crowley rolled his neck. “Try taking my hand,” he said through his teeth. “Might be easier for you to pull it straight from me. Sorry,” he added, awkwardly holding out his hand.

It wasn’t really any different from holding Warlock’s hand—Warlock when he was stiffly angry about something, anyway—at least until she reached for the memory he was projecting—

“Agh!” he yelled, jumping away from her and hitting a side of his pentagram; she jumped away from him at the same moment, cursing fiercely—

“What did you do?” she demanded.

“What did I do? What did _you _do?” he demanded in return.

She swore again, more quietly.

“Oi, and I’ve been watching my language,” Crowley grumbled. “You were just supposed to pull one image, not jump straight into my head.” He shivered and straightened his pajamas.

“Well, I’ve never done this before!” Kasey snapped. Her shoulders twitched uncomfortably.

“Ooh, did you see inside his head by accident?” Kami asked, her eyes wide and fascinated.

“Yep,” Kasey said, pressing her hands to her temples.

“It’s like that episode with Madame de—”

“Nope,” said Reya, silencing Kami with her admonitory finger again. “Kasey, are you okay?”

Kasey had taken in a couple of calming breaths by now. “Yeah. It was just a lot all at once.”

“What did you see?” This was from Kami.

“Nothing we didn’t already know. He’s been around a long time, and he’s spent most of it looking at Aziraphale.”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but…”Nnnnghh,” he conceded. Meanwhile, the shock from the accidental intrusion was fading.

“Right,” he said, flexing his fingers for no particular reason. “If you’re willing to try again”—he sent her a questioning look; she gave an affirmative shrug—“don’t try to…go in and grab things like a cowboy. Do cowboys grab things? Anyway, I’ll _send_ you some—ehh—images, memories, whatever, and you try to project them.”

“Project them. Into their heads?”

“Errr, better not,” Crowley said. “Try to project onto the wall here.” He indicated the side of the pentagram facing the girls. “It’s the only metaphysical surface in the room; it should work. Just…sort of…send it that way.”

“Send it?”

“Just…errrr…imagine your head is a slide projector.”

“A slide projector.” The look she gave him would have dehydrated Hastur’s frog. “Are you from the 1970s?”

“I’m from the 4000s B.C.,” he growled.

“Whatever,” she said, and extended her hand again. This time, he was ready; he sealed himself off instead of opening himself up, and sent just a thin stream of memories of Aziraphale in her metaphysical direction. Her eyes widened, then narrowed; she pressed her lips together and then sent a scalding stare at the pentagram wall.

A cream-colored blur appeared, wavered, then solidified until it was definitely Aziraphale.

Aziraphale _in the Bastille_.

Of all the memories to show, for God’s—Satan’s—someone’s—

“Jesus Lord,” Maya swore at what, Crowley realized, must have looked like a late-18th-century English aristocrat floating in her basement. Reya muttered something in Spanish that was almost definitely profane, though Crowley’s own Spanish was too rusty to catch it.

“Ooh,” said Kami. “He’s very pretty.”

“Of course he’s pretty; he’s an angel.” Crowley was fairly sure he was blushing.

“Are all angels pretty?” asked Kasey, surveying the projected image with scientific interest.

“Ehhhnnng,” Crowley replied, thinking, for instance, of Sandalphon, “…there’s some variability.”

“Is he in cosplay?” Kami asked, clambering from the couch to view the image more closely.

“Is he…what?” Crowley was lost again.

“You know—dressed as a character.”

“Err…he was dressed as an English aristocrat from the 1790s, but it _was _the 1790s…I dunno, I suppose if you think about it, he and I are always in…cosplay.”

“Were you wearing that too?”

“Definitely not. I was in…nngh…stylish French peasant, I suppose.” He watched as Aziraphale’s eyes did that sort-of-frowning flick up and down (“Oh good _Lord_.”). “He didn’t approve of it.”

“Oh, I think he did,” said Reya.

“Mmm-hm,” said Kasey and Maya. Kami was grinning furiously.

“Right,” said Crowley loudly. “Is that enough for you to…do a warmup sketch?” he inquired of Maya with an attempt at sarcastically stiff politeness.

“I’ll get a picture of it,” she said, producing a phone from somewhere.

“It’s a metaphysical projection of a memory,” Crowley protested. “I don’t think your cellphone camera can—”

She’d already taken the picture and was looking at it appraisingly. “A little blurry, but it’s enough to go on.” She shifted her gaze, sternly, to Crowley. “Weren’t you about to work on Reya’s love life?”

“Of course I was,” he said, rubbing his forehead. He let go of Kasey’s hand. The image of Aziraphale in his ruffles disappeared, which should have been a relief but instead sent a pang of loss through Crowley’s chest.

He took in a businesslike sniff, clapped his hands loudly. “This boy, the one you want to spend your weekends driving for, and maybe lose your job. What’s his name?”

Reya’s gaze was resentful, but she answered, “Evan.”

“Evan,” he echoed, feeling again the current of disapproval in the room at the mention of him. Even Reya’s feelings were, at best, conflicted. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I need everyone to think about this ‘Evan.’ Not you, car girl. You can’t even _think _honestly about him. Everyone else. Anything you remember about him. I’ll send those memories over to our, er, resident slide projector here.” He grinned rudely at Kasey, who rolled her eyes.

With more people’s memories involved, Crowley had expected this process to be trickier than merely projecting an image of Aziraphale, but it turned out to be simpler. The girls’ memories of Evan were readily available. He made sure to pick the worst ones, following where anger simmered the hottest, but, frankly, there weren’t many of any other kind. Sending them on to Kasey was, in fact, easier than opening up his own mind. He made a mental note, if he were ever again in a situation in which he had to train a witch to project metaphysical memories, that he would be sure to use someone else’s memories.

Scratch that; he made a mental note to avoid training witches to project metaphysical memories.

In fact, he updated his mental note, he should avoid any kind of training of witches.

While he was updating, Kasey had started projecting memories of Evan onto the pentagram, a definite touch of distaste now accompanying her penetratingly focused stare. Evan, Crowley guessed, was reasonably attractive by human standards. Or, in this case, human American teenager standards. Evan himself seemed very aware of this, to judge by the first series of memories Kasey projected—Evan posing for selfies in a variety of locations, occasionally with Reya but usually alone. Crowley couldn’t exactly criticize anyone for taking selfies, given that he’d taken credit in Hell for inventing them (he kept quiet on whether he’d actually done the inventing), but on the other hand, there was a reason selfie-taking was applauded by Hell. The next memory was of Evan eating lunch and glancing lustfully (Crowley had no trouble recognizing lust) at a group of girls walking past. The one after that was Evan mocking something Reya had said, and this became something of a theme. Evan, rolling his eyes as Reya paused to help an older woman with her bags. Evan, mocking other students in a hallway. Evan, mocking Kasey. Evan, mocking Kami.

Those last two memories drew pulses of real anger from Reya, who broke in at last: “Okay, okay, I get it. He’s…kind of a jerk. And the long-distance thing was probably never gonna work anyway.”

“You’re going to break up with him?” Kami asked with undisguised hope.

Reya sighed and rubbed her face. “Probably. I’ll just have to figure out how to do it.”

Cheers broke out from the other three girls. Crowley felt a bit like cheering himself, not that he would ever have let this show, until he noted that the emotions radiating from Reya were not feelings of liberation but, instead, something like defeat.

That wasn’t right. She should be feeling better. He frowned. Technically, he’d done his end of the bargain. He hadn’t given her a car (as much as that seemed to him like a perfectly reasonable desire), but he’d taken away the need for a car. But…all he’d done was subtract a boyfriend. As useful as that might be, given the uselessness of the boyfriend, it hadn’t done anything to fill the hollow in her that yearned for strength that he couldn’t give her.

On the other hand…he wasn’t alone.

“Wait! We’re not done yet!” he cut into the jubilation. “We’re going to…erhghrr…there’s a second phase. You three”—he pointed at everyone except Reya—“think about your friend.” He indicated Reya, probably unnecessarily. “Not that aggravating boy, just her. Go.”

This time really would be more difficult, because now he needed to find the most positive memories—a task that was essentially the exact opposite of every demonic inclination he possessed. Finding angry, frustrated memories of Evan had been easy; he’d been drawn to them like the lowest, ripest apples in Eden. The positive memories of Reya, to his demonic meta-senses, were fuzzier, more elusive. But presently he caught a…whiff, if a mind can catch whiffs, of something that felt…familiar. He’d felt it earlier in the evening, that same sense of familiarity; when had that been?

He couldn’t remember, and forgot it entirely a few moments later when he realized what the extra-sensory whiff reminded him of—

Aziraphale.

Maybe demons couldn’t sense love, but he, Crowley, would always know what Aziraphale felt like—warmth and care and comfort and admiration and—

_Just go where it feels like Aziraphale_.

He metaphysically grabbed at something in Maya’s mind that he couldn’t quite see but reminded him of a wing stretched over his head in the rain; sent it to Kasey. Soon they had a stream going:

Reya, leading the basketball stands in a chant for Maya. Reya, arms around the shoulders of friends in the stands of a gigantic stadium, cheering ecstatically for what Crowley would have called football but was probably called something different in America. Reya, helping someone’s younger sibling with math homework. Reya, giving Kami a calming talk outside a classroom. Reya, helping Kasey haul boxes of dusty books into an office. Reya, being hugged by her grandmother. Reya, laughing with her family at a meal that would have inspired envy in Aziraphale. Reya, eyes flashing as she stepped between a bully and his victim.

Crowley snuck a glance at Reya. She hadn’t cried while contemplating breaking up with her boyfriend, but she was wiping her eyes now. He caught the eye of Kami, who was beside her on the couch, and gave a significant head tilt in that direction. Kami, already crying at least as much as Reya, lost no time in wrapping her arms around her friend; Maya moved instantly from the armchair to join them, depositing art supplies along the way; Kasey abandoned her memory projection experiment to add herself to the pile.

Teenage human crying and mutual support ensued for some minutes. Crowley reclined in his chair, his feet propped again on the pentagram wall, hands toying with his newly-long hair, unsure whether he should be revolted by the excessive emotions or depressed that he didn’t have anyone to wrap their arms around him when he felt small and unwanted.

Eventually they settled a bit.

“You know something?” Reya said, brandishing a tissue box at him. “You’re a really weird demon.”

A smile spread across Crowley’s face that he suspected was genuine. “Yeah,” he said, his voice embarrassingly sincere. “Yeah, I am.”


	4. Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley the matchmaker? It's more likely than you think!

“Right, done with feelings,” said Crowley, inaccurately. “Next is…romantic girl.” He pointed at Kami. “And—can I just say—who, on the face of the earth, calls a _demon from Hell _to fix their love life?” He glowered at both Kami and Reya.

“Don’t look at me; I asked for a car,” Reya said. “You were the one who decided to fix my love life.”

“Shadduuup.” He looked at Kami. “Tell me about _this _boy.”

“He’s really nice,” Kami said promptly. She wasn’t lying, although she sounded like she was reading from a script. “Also he’s smart, and when you talk to him, it’s like he’s really interested. Even though he could talk to anyone he wanted, because everyone likes him.” She crossed her arms and forced her cheerful face to glare at Crowley. “And don’t say I’m lying, because all of that is true.”

“No, no,” Crowley said vaguely, “I wasn’t going to say that.” He was distracted by an onset of powerful waves of jealousy, rolling off of—Maya? They were so strong that he glanced at her, startled, and was somehow even more disconcerted to find that nothing had changed in her expression; she was gazing mildly at Kami, twirling a pencil and looking just as relaxed as she had all night. He also felt some jealousy from Reya, much milder but still present. What _was _it about this boy?

“Let me see him,” he said, then, making sure to put a mocking edge on his politeness, “If you don’t mind, professor.”

“Sure,” said Kasey, almost alarmingly eager for more experimentation, “send me something.”

She stayed seated on the couch, though. He frowned at her. “I can’t send anything out of here.”

“You can’t get anything out,” she said, “but I can get in. Try it.”

He doubted it, but—“Alright,” he sighed, “everybody think about this boy.”

“Except me?” Kami asked.

“No, you too; you’re fine,” he waved her along. She was presumably remembering that he hadn’t allowed Reya to send memories of Evan, but this situation was different. He grabbed the first memory he felt from her that felt fairly neutral—in fact, all her Alex-related memories felt fairly neutral. He sent the memory in Kasey’s direction, still certain that it would just bounce back at him off the pentagram wall—

Kasey coolly projected the image. Smugly, really.

“…Eh,” Crowley muttered, and got on with it.

Alex, on the surface, didn’t look very different from Evan, but his smile tended to be warm instead of mocking. The girls’ memories showed him laughing with friends (not at them). He helped with homework. He contributed thoughtfully to classroom discussions. He high-fived Reya at the stadium during the what’s-the-American-word-for-football.

Crowley was bored.

He found a memory with at least a bit of desire associated. It still wasn’t very exciting, just Alex conversing in a hallway, although it came from Reya instead of Kami, which seemed…significant. He cast about for anything more interesting, and finally found someone’s memory wrapped up in some nice, intense jealousy. Not just jealousy—jealousy _and _desire.

It turned out to be an image of Kami.

“Uhh,” said Kasey, looking at her projection confusedly.

“Oh—sorry,” said Maya, her utterly normal air still unnerving to Crowley, “I think that’s mine. I think she was talking _about _Alex.”

“She talks about him a lot,” Reya explained to Crowley. “She’s had a crush on him for forever.”

“Mm,” said Kami, even noncommittal humming broadcasting blatant dishonesty to Crowley.

Oh.

Oh, wait.

“Can we…try something?” he asked. “Romance girl, try to remember that same conversation.”

“Sure,” she said, shrugging, and soon Kasey was projecting an image of Maya, seen from Kami’s perspective, patiently listening to her lie about this boy. This memory, though, was thoroughly laced with all the fuzzy-to-Crowley feelings that were lacking from her memories of Alex.

“Hands!” Crowley shouted. (This time, a couple of the girls jumped.) Finally, he’d remembered the connection he’d lost before. When he’d chased the girls’ memories of Reya, they’d reminded him of Aziraphale, but also of the sense of something he’d felt earlier from—

“Bring me that sketch of your hands,” he told Kami.

She looked thoroughly baffled but brought the drawing. Crowley let his fingers brush over the penciled lines, knowing now why the emotions poured into it felt so familiar—and painful. He imagined one girl casually suggesting her hands as models; the other carefully guiding them into position, finding excuses to adjust them while avoiding eye contact, circling around to find the best angle…

A bit like leaning close to blow a paint stain off a coat when the miracle could just as easily have been done from half a mile away with his eyes closed.

Maybe demons couldn’t sense love, but he, Crowley, would always know what _that _felt like.

He handed Kami the sketch but held her gaze, felt the same feelings flowing out of her as she touched it.

“I can’t make your crush like you,” he told her. “Your crush already likes you.”

Her eyes went huge. “N-no—”

“Wait, Alex already likes her?” Reya demanded, and Crowley knew he hadn’t been imagining the hints of jealousy from her. But it was the intensity of the jealousy streaming from the still disquietingly calm Maya that nearly knocked him off the chair. He ignored both of them, though, tilting his head and keeping his eyes on Kami’s.

“I can’t do this one for you,” he told her softly. “It’s on you.”

She stared at him for two more seconds and then buried her face in her hands.

“I don’t get it,” said Reya, automatically rubbing Kami’s back. “Is she supposed to ask Alex out herself?”

Crowley waited. Eventually Kami looked up at him. “Are you sure?” she asked shakily.

“Very.”

She grabbed a tissue but balled it up in her fist instead of using it.

“I don’t like Alex,” she said, her voice tiny.

“What?” said Maya.

“Yeah you do,” objected Reya.

Kasey the future professor looked at Crowley. He could almost see the puzzle pieces coming together in her mind. She shifted on her couch cushion so that she was facing Kami. “Um, feelings and stuff aren’t my area, but, you know that…we’re your friends and everything, right?”

Kami glanced at her, her hands now shredding the tissue. She swallowed, looked straight ahead again—“I don’t like boys!” she managed, finally.

‘There we go,” said Kasey with relief.

“Oh!” said Reya. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Kami gave a hiccupping laugh instead of answering. Then—“Maya, please say something.”

Maya was frozen. Well, externally. Internally, she was a supernova (Crowley would know).

“Um,” she said, fighting to maintain her calm mask, “why—why _didn’t _you tell us?”

“Well, you didn’t either!” Kami returned indignantly.

“Wait, what?” said Reya.

Maya had frozen again.

Kami gave Crowley a look fierce enough that he wanted to back away from it. “You better be right.”

“Trust me.” He tried to sound reassuring.

“You said that was a bad idea.”

“Nng,” he admitted. “Worked out, though, yeah?”

“Will one of you please explain what you’re talking about?” Reya asked.

Crowley could feel the tension stretched through every inch of Kami as she looked not at Reya but at Maya: “He said my crush already likes me. Was he right?”

The demon experienced an intense surge of empathy for Maya, trying to go in a few seconds from months or years of keeping her feelings deeply concealed under a cool exterior to talking about them to the person she valued most—

“Kami,” interrupted Reya, slowly, “who’s your crush?”

“It’s Maya,” Kasey snapped. “Can you two please get on with it?”

Kami, watching Maya tautly, was starting to crumple—

Maya blinked several times and took in a fast breath. “Hey,” she said to Kami. “Do you want to…uh…get coffee before we meet everyone for Star Wars on Thursday?”

Kami’s anxious face was transformed by a glowing smile. “Sure!”

Reya looked back and forth between the two of them. “Are you a couple now?”

The possible couple looked at each other. Kami really did crumple this time. “You know what my parents are like.”

Crowley felt her fear—it was crushing and crippling, and he wanted to unmake the world rather than let it stay—and through her he felt the intolerance, the hostility of her parents. They weren’t in fully-claimed-by-Hell territory, not yet, although they were close to within-ten-years-we-shall-have-them range if they kept up their current media diet.

Nobody had asked anything of him or even looked at him, this time, but somehow he felt a sense of responsibility. “I can’t make them tolerant,” he said heavily. “That’s not a thing Hell can do. We usually do the opposite. Although—I don’t think we invented intolerance. I think that was you humans. But…whoever wrapped up hate in a shiny package and made you think it was Heaven’s work…that might have come from us. Someone above my level, though.”

He paused, stopped rambling, assessed his options. “I _can _disable…certain media sources. Permanently. I can’t promise quick changes. But it might clear their heads a little. They’ll still have to make the choice, though—the good direction instead of the bad. That’s on them.” He shrugged, feeling useless, and wishing Aziraphale were here, because Aziraphale could have done a lot more. “I’d need your…permission. I can’t do a demonic miracle outside this pentagram unless you allow it.”

“I thought you already…did my miracle,” said Kami, waving in Maya’s direction.

“Ehhh,” Crowley started—

“You can use mine,” Maya volunteered. “I mean, I kind of already got one”—she shot a look at Kami that was half frightened and half delighted—“and…you were right. I don’t actually want a basketball scholarship. I’d rather have more time to focus on art.”

“No,” said Kami and Crowley at the same time.

“You can’t give yours up; that’s not fair,” said Kami,

“And I’ve already got yours planned out, and I’m _not _going to waste that work,” added Crowley. “This one for the parents can be…errrr…free of charge. If you give me the go-ahead?”

Kami looked at him, then looked at Maya, who gave her an encouraging nod.

“Ok, go,” said Kami.

Crowley concentrated. Some news channels…several religious channels…a couple of radio broadcasts…all became mysteriously inaccessible to Kami’s parents.

“It’s still on them,” he repeated to Kami. “I can’t just…fix them. And—_and _it’s not your job to fix them either. It…shouldn’t be your burden.” He made a face. Too many emotions floating around in here. “Aaaand speaking of people determined to take on burdens,” he turned to Maya, “basketball girl. You can have a basketball scholarship. _But_, there’s also an art scholarship, that—with the right demonic nudge—can get approved much sooner than expected. Just in time for you. You’ll still have to _work _for it—something about submitting a portfolio or whatever.”

“Of course I can work for it,” she said scornfully.

“You’ll also have to make the choice,” he said. “It would be very…unexpected of you. The opposite of”—mockingly—“strong and stable.”

She wrinkled her nose, a thoroughly insufficient indicator of the fear and uncertainty he’d just handed her in the form of this choice. “You really are a demon.”

He rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“He’s kinda right, though,” said Kami carefully. “You _are _always the strong one.”

“Mm-hmm,” Kasey and Reya harmonized.

Maya wrinkled her whole face. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“Sounds exhausting,” said Crowley, stretching lazily.

“You’re always the one who plans ahead and makes arrangements,” pointed out Kasey.

“And you’re always, you know, the protective one,” said Kami.

“You can’t keep that up forever,” Reya concluded.

Crowley frowned; he was fairly certain this conversation had been his idea, so why was it making him feel uncomfortable now?

“Anyway,” he broke in, “you’ll have the choice. Do what’s safe and expected, or do something bold and risky. If I have your permission.”

She ignored him and looked at her friends. “Are you saying I’m boring?”

“No!” countered three voices immediately.

“Just that you’re going to get tired eventually,” said Kami earnestly (her face was made specifically for earnest looks). “You never, you know, lean on anyone else. You’re always the one…being leaned on.”

Maya’s expressive eyebrows were drawn together, which for her was a fairly extreme display of emotion. Crowley could feel the roiling turmoil within her that prompted the display. She took a deep breath and turned to him.

“Do it,” she snapped.

He gave her a nod and focused. Somewhere, several layers of red tape were abruptly cut through, and at least six very dull meetings were rendered unnecessary.

“It’ll be announced in a few weeks,” Crowley told Maya. “You can start…what do you call it when you make a portfolio? Portfoling? Anyway, you can go on and start. Get ahead. Or…you know…not.”

“Oh, shut up,” she told him, settling further back into her massive armchair, crossing her arms defensively.

Kasey looked around the room as if counting. “He’s done his side of all the bargains, right?”

“Ooh,” said Reya, sitting forward and reaching for her nail supplies.

“It’s our turn now,” said Kami, her face lighting up. “That means _you _have to trust _us_.”

Crowley was glad that he was at least as good as Maya at hiding trepidation behind a blank face.


	5. Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the makeover chapter! And so much pining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading this, thanks for your patience! I hope you enjoy the makeover and the yearning!

Crowley did _not _trust anyone other than himself to pick out a nail color.

Reya’s nail polish stock had five shades of black, with increasingly inappropriate names. He chose one that was black and shimmery, with just a hint of red, called “Sex After Midnight.” (Briefly, he imagined explaining that to Aziraphale, and quickly decided not to imagine that anymore. At least not in public.)

Not that Reya could apply the color right away; both she and Kami had standards, which meant prep work. And furniture rearrangement. It was Kami who suggested that it would be simpler to just let him out of the pentagram—

“No no no no no!” he broke in. “If you let me out, you can’t send me back. I’ll be stuck here, and I’d have to…use an airplane or something.” He shuddered.

“And you’d miss lunch with Aziraphale,” said Reya.

“And he’d come smite us, probably,” said Kasey.

“Okay, okay,” sighed Kami. “The demon stays in his cell.”

“And watch the candles,” Crowley added, aiming for snide but ending up at alarmed, as Kami and Maya positioned a chair directly over one. Eventually, though, the furniture and humans were in position without further menace to the candles.

“You have _really great _hair,” said Kami, seated behind him, drawing her brush through it to its impressive length.

“Yep,” he agreed. Obviously, if he were going to take the time to miracle hair for himself, he’d make sure it was high quality.

“And humble too,” said Maya with an impressive eyebrow raise.

“I’m a _demon_,” Crowley reminded her. “Vanity? Pride? Love ‘em.”

“Need to take better care of your nails, though,” said Reya, judgmentally, starting on his right hand with a nail file (she’d already confiscated his coffee).

“Nngh,” he deflated. He _had _taken good care of his nails in his role as Nanny Ashtoreth. But he had to admit he’d neglected to make any nail appointments in the months since then, probably just because he hadn’t bothered and definitely not because the idea of being away from the bookshop, unable to use his phone, for at least an hour, caused him to break out in a cold sweat punctuated with thoughts of burning books.

“I need a better picture of Aziraphale,” Maya announced, thankfully pulling his mind out of the burning bookshop. “This one was too blurry, and the angle was bad.” The sketches she’d made looked good, from what Crowley could see, but clearly she also had standards. “Kasey, can we get some more memories projected?”

Kasey, comfortably watching the beauty proceedings from her spot nestled on the couch, cocked her head at Crowley. “Can we?”

“Alright, alright,” he sighed, and started sending memories in her direction—any memory that was _not _in the bookshop, since his mind was still teetering on the edge of the conflagration.

The first one Kasey projected was Aziraphale’s discorporated image appearing in a bar where Crowley sat hugging a bottle and a book of prophecies.

“Argh, not that one,” he groaned.

“Oh, is he a hologram? Or a ghost?” Kami asked, fascinated.

“Be _still_,” ordered Reya.

“_I said not that one_,” Crowley snarled, wrenching his mind away from that day, that week; he forced himself farther back, something safely long ago—

Rome.

He sighed with relief, watching Aziraphale accidentally tempt him with oysters. Incidentally, was that the last time he’d seen the angel’s collarbones?

“He’s so flirty,” said Kami from behind him.

“_Flirty_?” Crowley spluttered, offended on Aziraphale’s behalf and also imagining his reaction to being called _flirty_.

“Definitely,” said Maya.

“Look at that grin,” said Reya, glancing up from his cuticles. “And be still.”

“He wasn’t _flirting_,” Crowley protested. “He wouldn’t know how, for one thing. He was…embarrassed.”

“Mm-hmm,” replied four voices in a tone that meant the opposite of agreement.

“Keep going; let’s see some more,” instructed Maya.

The next one was the Globe Theatre, which drew a gasp of glee from Kami and an appreciative eyebrow-raise from Kasey. But it was Aziraphale’s unspoken plea for _Hamlet’s_ success that brought out the strongest reactions.

“Look at those puppy-dog eyes,” said Reya, pausing as she started applying the first coat of polish to his right thumb.

“They’re not—” Crowley started, over the ensuing teenaged giggling, but this time the truth lock threatened to shut him down. “Errr…maybe a bit.”

“He’s so pretty,” Kami said, now twisting a broad curling iron in his hair. “Rewind it a little.”

“Rewind it?” scoffed Crowley. “It’s a memory projection, not a cassette tape—”

Kasey had already rewound it. He watched again as the angel gave him what were undeniably puppy-dog eyes. Hell, he was ready to miracle Hamlet _again _just watching it.

“Is that the one you’re going to draw?” Kami asked Maya, who was looking at it appraisingly.

“Maybe…I still want to see a few more, though.”

Kasey moved faster now, memories streaming past at random—Aziraphale in Mesopotamia, Aziraphale on the wall over Eden, Aziraphale in Crowley’s car, Aziraphale at the Ritz a decade ago, Aziraphale in a bombed-out church, Aziraphale the Arthurian knight, Aziraphale feeding ducks—

“Wait, stop—go back,” Maya said. Kasey went back to Eden. “Not that far back.” She jumped to Aziraphale clinging to the seat in the Bentley, looking terrified. “Farther forward.” Aziraphale in armor. “Back a little, I think—yeah, that one.”

The memory she’d wanted was Aziraphale in the just-bombed church, holding the case of books. It must have been right as Crowley had walked past him, offering him a lift home in as casual a voice as he could manage, certainly not watching out of the corner of his eye as the angel had stood, strangely frozen, silhouetted in front of that flaming bird statue.

“Ohh,” said Kami softly, pulling the curling iron out of his hair.

“Uh-huh,” agreed Maya, pulling out her phone for a picture.

“What?” demanded Crowley, pulling his gaze away from the angel. Aziraphale’s face in that moment was almost painful to look at; it was easier to frown around the room at the teenagers.

“That’s when you can really see how much he’s in love with you,” Maya explained.

“Look”—Crowley would have clutched his hands in his hair, but Reya had one of his hands trapped, and Kami had what felt like half his hair pinned in the white-hot curling iron. He settled for waving his left hand at random. “_Look_, he doesn’t—errrgh, you don’t know him. That’sss not what he—that’s not how he feelss about me.”

All four of them rolled their eyes so forcefully that it should have lifted the ceiling.

“Listen; you’ve got to lisss—we’re _friends_, best friends—but he’s not _in love _with me.” He was suddenly glad Aziraphale wasn’t here to hear how nakedly needy his voice had gone. “And, and I just said it while I’m in a truth lock, so…you know it’s true.” He swallowed; that realization hurt a _lot _more than he’d expected.

“Um, didn't you say the truth lock just means that your little mind has to _think _it’s true?” said Kasey.

“That’s not the same thing as it being true in reality,” added Reya, insolently.

“…Nnnnk,” Crowley admitted.

“When was this?” Kasey asked. She had apparently figured out how to pause memories in addition to rewinding them, because Aziraphale was frozen on the wall of the pentagram, in that transfixed moment that was too intense for Crowley to keep his eyes on.

“1941. World War Two,” Crowley said automatically. “He’d…sort of gotten himself captured by Nazi spies. In a church.”

“And you rescued him when the church got bombed?” came Kami’s excited voice. She was doing something with a comb and hair clips now.

“Ehh…well, technically, I rescued him _by _bombing the church.”

“You bombed a church?”

“The Nazis dropped the bomb, not me,” he defended himself. “I just…reset the destination. Besides, they were going to shoot him. And I _did _warn them. Not my fault they didn’t listen.”

“You bombed a church that _you were standing in_?”

“You bombed a church that you _and Aziraphale _were standing in?”

“Eurrrgh…yes, but…well, all he had to do was use a miracle to keep us safe when the bomb hit.”

“Some rescue. _Be still_.”

“He had to rescue himself from your rescue.”

“He had to rescue himself _and you _from your rescue.”

“Eck,” said Crowley.

Reya looked again at the frozen memory. “He must _really _love you if he was that happy about _that _rescue. Give me your other hand.”

“Eh, that wasn’t—he wasn’t—he was happy because I rescued his books.”

“Of course he was,” sighed Maya, sketching.

“Right,” said Kasey. “You’d probably rescued _him_ ten times that week already. But rescuing books, that’s special.”

“Ye—” he started, and coughed. The truth lock had stopped him. “Rescuing books, special. Yes,” he managed instead. That part was true.

But they’d noticed. He wilted under three suspicious gazes (and presumably a fourth from Kami, but he couldn’t see it since she was behind him braiding a lock of his hair).

“I hadn’t rescued him that week,” he said, shrugging. They weren’t satisfied. “Hadn’t…hadn’t seen him in a bit.”

He was absolutely planning to move on to a new topic, but he was betrayed by his own mind, presumably with some help from Kasey, because the projected memory shifted almost a century back to Aziraphale in St. James Park, wearing muttonchops, a fuzzy hat, and a shocked expression as he looked up at Crowley from a slip of paper. Crowley looked away.

“Be _still_,” snapped Reya.

“So you two had a fight,” observed Maya.

“In the 1800s,” added Kasey, her eyes running analytically over their clothing.

“Yeah,” said Crowley. He glanced at the memory in time to see Aziraphale say “fraternizing.” He flinched and looked away again.

“What did you fight about?” Kami asked sympathetically, starting another braid at his opposite temple.

“Aaagghhh.” Of all the things he didn’t want to talk about. “I…asked him to help me with something dangerous. He didn't want to.”

Reya frowned up at him from filing the nails on his left hand. “You two do dangerous things all the time. Why would that bother him?”

“It was…” he started to wave a hand; Reya’s grip clamped harder. “It was dangerous to…me. And he was afraid of…getting caught. Fraternizing.” Well over a century later, it was still painful. It didn’t help that the memory was now showing Aziraphale flouncing away.

“That’s what he was worried about?” said Kami, sounding thoughtful. “Rewind it, Kasey.”

Kasey took it back to the beginning, where Crowley handed over the note and Aziraphale looked at him—

“Right there,” said Kami. “He’s _so _worried. He was that worried about getting caught…fraternizing?”

“Errr, no, not there,” Crowley said. Aziraphale was paused in the midst of “It would destroy you,” and…Crowley hadn’t realized at the time just how stricken he’d looked, or perhaps he’d forgotten it in his bitterness over “fraternizing” and the pain of watching Aziraphale walk away. “He was…he was worried about me, there.”

“That’s what he was really worried about, then,” said Kami firmly. “Everything else was just extra.”

Again, Crowley couldn’t look at Aziraphale’s face for long—he never could stand to see his angel in pain, and this was pain that he’d caused, and pain that he’d gone on to make worse instead of better, and pain that he’d abandoned Aziraphale in for the next eighty years, and his mind, instead of taking him somewhere happier, safer, was apparently pursuing a theme, because Aziraphale in pain in the 1800s shifted to Aziraphale in pain in the bandstand last summer—

“What did you _do_?” demanded Reya, staring at the angel’s hurt face.

“That wasn’t me!” Crowley protested. “He—_I _said we could go off together. He”—Crowley waved his drying right hand over Reya’s protests—“he said he didn’t like me and, and it was over.”

“So you broke up,” summarized Reya, starting to apply the first coat of polish to his left hand. “Will. You. Hold. _Still_.”

“Look how sad he is,” said Kami, sadly.

“How sad _he _is?” Crowley complained, but couldn’t argue the point much farther, because again Kasey had frozen the memory on a moment he hadn’t quite picked up the first time around—it had to have been when he’d looked back bitterly to tell the angel to have a nice doomsday—and Aziraphale was devastatedly fighting back tears, the kind of look that Crowley would have _destroyed _anyone else for causing in his angel—

“Alright, yes, but—I, I made up for that, I swear, I found him the next day, I apologized and everything—”

“I’m going to put your hand in a vice,” muttered Reya, brandishing the polish brush, as Crowley’s memories sped along to the next day, where Aziraphale, _again_, was on the verge of tears, and Crowley…Crowley left him, again—

“Did you just break up _again_?” asked Maya.

“Eurrrhhh,” Crowley said shakily. “It, it only lasted four hours that time. I found him”—the wall of the pentagram showed a hint of flames in the bookshop—“no, no, no, actually, he found me”—and the memories were back at the bar, Aziraphale’s ghostlike form floating vaguely above the polished table—“and…well, there was a lot—we had to stop the end of the world—err, it wasn’t really us, but that’s not the point—the point is, we got past all that”—his projected memory helpfully shifted to Aziraphale laughing on the park bench about Michael miracling a towel—“we’re friends, we can be friends in public now, which is…good, really good.” The memory had shifted to the Ritz again, just after the toast, Aziraphale leaning in toward him.

“Aww, look how he looks at you,” said Kami, bringing the two side braids together behind Crowley’s head.

“He’s looking at your lips,” said Maya, who was scanning the scene with an artist’s eye.

“He’s—what? No,” Crowley argued.

“He totally is,” said Reya. “Got any more like that?”

Crowley had the last few months of lunches, dinners, breakfasts, late nights with wine in the bookshop, afternoons with wine in the bookshop, attempts to keep Aziraphale from fussing over the plants he’d moved into the bookshop, but what his treasonous mind produced instead was Aziraphale against the wall of a former Satanic convent.

“Ooh, did you kiss him?” Kami’s voice was rapidly approaching a squeal.

“What? No! Of course I didn’t—I was _angry_; he’d just—well…errrrgh, he said I was nice.”

“How horrible,” Kasey intoned.

“It is if you’re a demon! I…I lost my temper.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Reya. “He doesn’t mind, though, does he?”

Now that she mentioned it, Aziraphale did look…remarkably unbothered.

“He’s looking at your lips again,” said Maya.

“Mm-hmm,” came the predictable chorus.

“He’s not!” Crowley said. “He’s…he was looking at my nose—watch the candles!” Kami had circled in front of him while Reya rotated back to his right, neither of them paying much attention to their feet, since they were intently watching Aziraphale’s eyes flick downward.

“Why would he look at your nose? Nobody looks at a nose like that.”

“Because”—Crowley was spluttering—“because, I was—my nose hit his nose, so he would—naturally, he’d look at…”

“Lips,” said Reya flatly.

“He’s definitely going to look at your lips when I’m done with them,” said Kami, examining his face while spreading out makeup supplies. Over her shoulder, Aziraphale’s eyes in his very un-frightened face darted down again (Kasey apparently had figured out how to run Crowley’s memories in a loop). Crowley swallowed, momentarily distracted by the sight of Aziraphale’s own lips, together with the memory of having been that close to them—

Kami loomed in his face with a pair of tweezers.

“Stop JERKING,” Reya said through her teeth.

“Calm down; I’m just going to work on your eyebrows,” Kami added. “How did you and Aziraphale meet?”

The memory projection, he saw over her shoulder, shifted not to Eden but to the Tadfield airbase last summer.

“That can’t be right,” said Kasey.

“That’s…that’s him explaining how we met,” Crowley sighed. He could just see, beside Kami’s ear, Aziraphale’s ridiculous smile as he said “wily old serpent.”

“You’re in a war zone, and he’s explaining how you met?” Reya asked, applying the second coat of polish to his right hand.

“Yes…well…honestly, that’s not even surprising, if you know him.”

“He sure is smiling a lot about it,” Maya commented, barely looking up from her artwork. Crowley couldn’t exactly argue that point.

“Is it this one?” Kasey asked. From Crowley’s vantage point, Aziraphale’s wings, lit with the new sun of Eden, appeared on either side of Kami’s head. He looked at Kasey in surprise. She shrugged. “It felt the oldest.”

“Be still!” said Kami and Reya together. Kami glanced over her shoulder at the memory, giving Crowley a view of Aziraphale’s face on the wall over the garden, anxious and polite and grateful and kind; his glorious bastard of an angel, fretting over whether he might have done the bad thing, the core of him so determined to do the good thing that he’d risk anything for it.

“That’s the one,” Crowley said, closing his eyes. Kami resumed her assault on his eyebrows.

“Where are you?” asked Maya.

“And _when _are you?” added Kasey.

“Eden. 6000 years ago.”

“Eden is _real_?” Kasey demanded.

“Ehhrrghnn,” Crowley equivocated, “let’s not have that discussion at the moment. He and I’ve known each other since…since humans have…been a thing.”

“Six thousand years,” said Kami, putting down the tweezers (thank…someone), “and you’ve never mentioned how you feel?”

The gleaming light of Eden shifted to neon-tinted dimness; Crowley didn’t need to see around Kami to know that the memory would be showing Aziraphale painstakingly handing him a thermos and then turning down a lift.

“Every time I get anywhere near that topic, he panics.” He focused his gaze on Kami’s arsenal of makeup, but this somehow didn’t really shut out the image of Aziraphale’s pained, frightened face as he told Crowley he went too fast.

“He does look panicky,” Reya conceded, finishing his right hand and circling behind him to start the second coat on his left. Kami, blotting foundation across his face, glanced back again.

“Go back; I didn’t see it,” she requested; Kasey readily complied. “What’s he saying?”

“Uhhh…right there he’s saying we could go on a picnic, or dine…go to lunch.”

The girls exchanged glances in a way that Crowley had come to dread.

“That…doesn’t sound like panicking,” said Maya.

“That sounds like asking you out,” said Reya.

“He wasn’t,” Crowley said. “He was…we eat together all the time. That’s just…what we do.” Strictly speaking, it was what Aziraphale did. Crowley’s memories finally cooperated with him, sending Kasey a stream of Aziraphale at lunches, dinners, breakfasts, bistros, cafes, tiny little restaurants where they knew you…

“How do you not call this dating?” demanded Reya.”Be still.”

“Because—because it’s not. Look, he’s had a chance—loads of chancesss, chances all the time—to say that…that he’d like to be something other than friends. And he hasn’t.” Crowley’s voice had gone a bit cracked again.

“He just goes on dates with you. All the time,” sighed Kami as she brushed bronzer across his cheekbones.

“They’re not—listen, he loves eating. _Really _loves it.” For so long it had been the only guaranteed way to spend time with the angel—Aziraphale might or might not desire Crowley’s company, but he could always be persuaded to eat. And Crowley would have another hour or two with him, stolen golden minutes of conversation, of savoring the sight of Aziraphale savoring. “It’s his favorite—well, hoarding books is his favorite thing. But eating is…really high up there. Maybe higher than classical music. He’s there for the food, not me. I mean…ehhh…a little bit for me. But mostly the food.”

“You think so?” Maya said from her armchair, where she was adding color to whatever she’d drawn.

“You’re ridiculous,” said Kami, testing a maroon-ish shade of blush on her wrist, her eyes flicking critically to Crowley’s cheeks.

“Kasey, can you play it in slo-mo?” Maya asked. Her eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. Crowley didn’t even bother with objecting that you couldn’t just play a metaphysical projection of a memory in slow motion, because of course she could. He couldn’t see what they were watching, since Kami’s face as she applied blush was occupying nearly his entire field of vision, but he could tell the surroundings in the image had slowed.

“There—pause it there,” Maya said. “You see?”

“Nope,” said Crowley, who couldn't.

“Shush and let me finish this,” said Kami.

“And stop moving,” said Reya, for good measure.

Eventually he was allowed to look at his own memory, which was a recent one from some new sushi place.

“It’s when he thinks you’re not looking,” Maya stated, which explained why Aziraphale had gone blurry.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” Crowley asked, stubbornly.

“At what _he’s _looking at,” Kasey said impatiently. “He’s not looking at _food_. He’s looking at _you_. I swear, I’m supposed to be the one who’s bad with feelings.”

Crowley should have replied snidely; some part of his mind was in fact composing a scoffing retort (_I’m a demon; we don’t do feelings_), but he was distracted while the words were still en route to his mouth, because Aziraphale _was _looking at him, and his expression was—

“He’s so soft for you,” said Kami, with a romantic sigh that she should consider copyrighting.

Crowley swallowed. “He…I…it was probably just…something I said at the moment,” he attempted hoarsely.

They didn’t bother asking what he’d been saying, which was good; he was fairly certain he’d been talking about pickles. “Do some more,” said Reya, applying the topcoat to his nails (which looked exquisite).

And Kasey did. Lots more, viewed in pauses between Kami’s meticulous makeup artistry. She deftly penciled his eyebrows; they watched Aziraphale’s eyes light up when Crowley met him at a café, toning down to his usual kind and welcoming smile by the time Crowley fully focused on him.

She brushed on a smoky eye shadow that was like a whispered echo of his nail color; Aziraphale snuck glances at Crowley as Crowley prowled in a circle around him.

She applied eyeliner, over his complaints (he’d rarely bothered with it before, since his eyes were always covered by his sunglasses); Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on Crowley’s hands as he poured wine.

She moved on to mascara, something else he’d rarely bothered with, but thankfully much less threatening than the eyeliner (Kami only had to tell him to stop flinching four times). Aziraphale’s gaze turned to a lost sort of longing for a tiny moment as Crowley fed ducks.

She reached for lipstick, a maroon a few shades darker than his hair. Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to Crowley’s lips as they were crowded together on a full bus.

Kami pronounced his makeup done and went one last round with a curling iron, a slim one this time, to curl two tendrils she’d left on either side of his face. Aziraphale reached a hand toward Crowley’s hair and then sharply jerked it back as Crowley turned to face him.

“I’ll get a mirror so you can see yourself,” said Kami.

Crowley blinked; tore his gaze away from Aziraphale dazedly.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, mirror,” he croaked. “That’d be great.”

Kami moved around awkwardly-placed chairs; Reya, stretching luxuriously, moved out of her way.

It wasn’t clear which of them jostled the small table just outside the pentagram that had been holding their supplies.

What was clear was that everyone had forgotten about Crowley’s coffee, lurking for hours on a corner of that same table.

The mug tipped sideways—Kami grabbed it in time to stop its fall, but gravity had already claimed its contents—and the long-since-cold quarter cup of coffee from a Not Today Satan mug splashed squarely on a candle forming the point of a pentagram.

For Crowley it was a feeling like ears popping after a pressure change, the ringing silence after white noise that you’d stopped noticing finally stopped—

The pentagram was gone.

Crowley stood frozen, aware that he could now move freely but not yet believing that he could—

He looked at the girls, no more not-glass barrier between them. The girls, wide-eyed, looked back at him.

Kasey swore under her breath.

“_Bollocks_,” Crowley swore in turn. “How in the Heaven am I going to get home?”


	6. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Telling the truth, and other things that terrify Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I'm going with the head canon that A & C generally have to use human forms of transportation as opposed to miracling themselves over distances, since in the show they almost entirely move around via ordinary means. Even when the world was ending, they still apparently had to drive everywhere. (Phone line travel doesn't count as miracling; it's still technically human transportation, for a being who can fit between electrons if needed.)

“We can make it again,” said Maya.

“Nope,” said Crowley. “Or—well—you could, sure, but it wouldn’t do any good.”

“What do you mean, it wouldn’t do any good?” demanded Kami, who was standing closer to Maya than she had the rest of the night.

“I mean,” said Crowley, throwing his arms wide (at least he could do that now), “I mean—it can’t send me back. A new pentagram—it didn’t Summon me; it won’t know where to send me.”

The girls looked to Kasey. She winced. “I think he’s right.”

“Is nobody going to clean up the coffee?” asked Reya. She padded off to find cleaning supplies.

“So,” said Maya, “we make a new pentagram and then Summon him into it. Then that one could send him back, right?”

“No no no no no,” Crowley stopped that line of thought. “First of all, you’ve got no guarantee the new pentagram would Summon _me_—you might get some other demon, and believe me, you do _not _want one of them. Second, even if you did get me, when you Banished me, it would just send me back to where it Summoned me, which is right here. In your basement. Rrrrgggh.” He had started pacing (admittedly it was nice to be able to do that now).

“Okay,” said Maya with forced calm, “we’ll just…clean up, and then we’ll all sit down and make a new plan.”

“_Make a new plan_,” mimicked Crowley, still pacing. “Ah—eh—of course. Make a new plan for getting me across the Atlantic before lunchtime in London. Of course. And—and put out those candles!”

Everyone ignored him, but Kasey and Kami did at least blow out the candles while Maya and Reya handled the spilled coffee. Soon enough, the girls flopped back down—Reya took the enormous armchair this time, while Kasey, Kami, and Maya sank into the couch. Crowley scowled at all of them and grudgingly consented to sprawl across his chair, though he moved it away from the pentagram and its lingering scent of extinguished French vanilla tealights.

“You have to call Aziraphale,” said Kami, before any planning could start.

The other three gave her startled looks. “Um…we don’t actually want him to come smite us,” said Reya.

“He will anyway if we don’t come up with something soon,” Kami pointed out. “Besides, maybe he’ll have an idea of what to do.”

Aziraphale would undoubtedly have ideas of what to do, Crowley thought, but he doubted he would like any of them.

“Ergh,” he said. “Let’s…let’s think of a plan before we call him. We still have…what time is it?”

“Nearly 5,” said Kasey, and, before he could ask, “which means it’s nearly 10 in the morning in London.”

“He’s going to be worried about you,” said Kami seriously. “He hasn’t heard from you in hours.”

Crowley imagined the angel, reading in the bookshop with mid-morning light slanting through the windows. Probably wearing those ridiculous spectacles that he didn’t need. He wondered if he’d gotten himself some breakfast and eaten it alone.

He suddenly felt very lonely.

“Yeah—yep—let’s call him,” he reversed course. He reached for his phone, which wasn’t in his pocket. “Where’s—”

Maya produced it from somewhere and handed it to him. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Course not,” he replied, pulling up Aziraphale’s number.

“Put him on speaker so we can say we’re sorry,” Kami told him. He gave her an annoyed glare but acquiesced. It was a relief to press the call button and see the phone respond like it was supposed to.

Aziraphale picked up on the first ring. “Crowley?”

“Angel—yeah, it’s me. Lisssten—”

“Crowley.” The angel’s voice was suffused with relief. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah—of course I’m alright, yeah. It’s just—errrrr—we’ve had…a, a mishap. With the pentagram.”

“With the pentagram? Are you trapped?” Aziraphale’s voice had swung back to alarmed.

“No—well—no—arghhh. The pentagram’s deactivated. It’s gone. I’m out, but…I can’t get home. I mean they can’t send me home. I’m stuck in Atlanta.”

“Atlanta?” Aziraphale echoed. “In America? Didn’t it burn down?”

Crowley frowned. He hadn’t noticed any signs of burning. He looked at the girls. They looked offended.

“That was in 1864!” snapped Kasey.

“Why, hello, my dear!” Aziraphale shifted to his excited-about-technology tone. “I do hope everyone is alright.” Crowley decided not to ask if he was referring to the pentagram being deactivated or to the burning of Atlanta.

“Um…yeah,” said Kasey, possibly wondering the same thing. “We’re all fine.”

“We’re really sorry!” Kami called. “We were just about to send him back, and there was, um, an accident.”

“What sort of accident?”

“It doesn’t matter, angel!” Crowley intervened. “Just—just, it’s going to take longer to get home than I thought. I’ll have to—”

“Don’t be silly, Crowley; I’ll come to you.”

“…What?”

“I’ll come to you. You’ve done it, after all.”

“What d’you…Oh. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no—no no no. You can’t do that.”

“Why on Earth not? _You _have.”

“Y—yes—that was…that was different.”

“Oh? Different how?”

“Different—well, it was…ergghhhh…it was…because…different…that was _me_!”

He already knew he’d said the wrong thing.

“I see.” Aziraphale’s voice was acidic. “_You _can do it, but you don’t trust me to?”

“Angel…” Crowley whimpered.

“Precisely,” Aziraphale said triumphantly. “I am an angel, and angels can do all the things that demons can. If you can fly through telephone lines, I certainly can too.”

“Yes—yes, but—you don’t even _like _technology, and you could get lost, or trapped in someone’s voicemail, or—or—”

“Nonsense. I’ll be fine, as long as _you _don’t hang up.”

“I—well, of course I won’t, but, angel—no—”

“Stop being ridiculous, Crowley. I’ll be there momentarily.”

“Ah—angel—oh, for Sa—G—oh, bollocks. Oh—angel, Aziraphale, wait!”

“Stop _whining_, Crowley; I told you, I’m—”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just, can you, um, bring a pair of my sunglasses? There…might be a pair on the table in the back room; I think I left…”

“Yes, you did,” Aziraphale said crisply, “and you also left a pair last week, and another pair last month. I was thinking of starting a lost and found box for you.”

“Eh,” said Crowley.

“Now then,” said Aziraphale firmly. “Put the phone down, _don’t _hang up, and I’ll see you in a jiffy.”

Crowley looked to the ceiling, which was entirely unhelpful.

“Please be careful, angel,” he said weakly. He made the mistake of looking up at the girls—Kami in particular had an absurdly romantic tint to her gaze as she watched him gingerly place the phone on the floor. He tried to scowl at them.

“What’s he…doing…exactly?” asked Kasey.

Crowley groaned. “He’s traveling through the phone lines—eurrrghh, they’re not even lines—it’s a…stream, data, something—satellites—broadcast signals…He doesn’t know anything about that sort of thing; he’s—he hates technology.”

“He can do that? You can do that?” Kasey’s gaze was intensely scientific.

“It’s—we’re…metaphysical. Size doesn’t—we can alter—agghh, we can get bigger or smaller if we really want to.” He glared at the phone, willing Aziraphale to come out of it. “Dance on the head of a pin, that sort of thing. Except angels don’t dance. Except him, but just the one dance. He says, anyway. I was asleep, never got to see.” He was pacing again. He wondered when he’d started doing that. “C’mon, angel, dammit.”

“Look!” exclaimed Kami.

Aziraphale emerged from the phone with his back to Crowley, expanding upward like a time-lapse of a plant growing, if plants came in shades of cream; maybe it was more like a mushroom—

“Don’t be afraid,” he said kindly to the girls, who’d all drawn back warily. He straightened his coat sleeves. “Where is—” he was already turning toward Crowley, and froze at the sight of him, a silent “oh” rounding his lips—

His expression was one that Crowley couldn’t take in, especially since he himself was overwhelmed at seeing the angel in person, safe and real and solid and warm—

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, stupidly.

“You look…” Aziraphale trailed off, gesturing helplessly, “…_lovely_.” (A self-satisfied “mm-hmm” sounded from somewhere in the room.)

Oh.

Crowley had forgotten that he was made up into an American teenage human’s idea of beauty. Aziraphale’s eyes were huge, his mouth still partly open. Crowley couldn’t find words, or air, not with his angel looking at him like that; several eternal seconds stretched out—

Aziraphale looked to the side, pressing his lips together, his expression nearly as pained as the memory from the bandstand.

“You don’t like it?” Crowley was ready to miracle himself back to normal; he didn’t know what was hurting his angel, but obviously he’d do anything to stop it—

“No, I didn’t say that!” Aziraphale said quickly. “I—” He broke off, swallowed, and set his shoulders. “What on earth have you been _doing _all this time?” he demanded, in a tone more like the usual peevish one he used when Crowley was being especially aggravating.

Someone across the room might have let out an exasperated sigh.

Most of Crowley was still circling, baffled, around the moment Aziraphale had called him _lovely_, in _that _tone and with _that _face, but his mouth and voice responded automatically to Aziraphale’s complaining. “Oy, don’t blame me!” he blustered. “They’re the ones who—” he gestured at the girls and skidded to a stop under the force of four pairs of annoyed eyebrows and crossed arms.

“You could at least introduce us,” frowned Reya.

“Oh my!” said Aziraphale, blinking at them as if he’d forgotten they were there. “Apologies, my dears. We’re being terribly rude. Crowley—” he sent one of his usual long-suffering side glances in Crowley’s direction, but once his eyes reached Crowley’s face, the glance turned to…something else, and Crowley got lost in it for a few seconds (_he _is _looking at my lips_) before he was able to pull himself together.

“Right,” he said. Aziraphale blinked and looked away quickly, with a hint of that pained expression again. “Ah—Aziraphale, guardian of the Eastern Gate”—Crowley added that just to make the angel roll his eyes—“this is Kasey the witch—”

“Are you, my dear?” Aziraphale beamed beneficently on her, having apparently pushed away whatever had been troubling him. “That’s lovely.”

“Maya the…” Crowley raised an eyebrow at her.

“Artist,” she said firmly.

“Ah,” Aziraphale smiled. “Lovely to meet you as well.”

“Reya the…”

“Newly single Five Stripes fan,” she supplied.

“The…sorry, the what?”Aziraphale’s face had gone all endearingly puzzled.

“No idea,” said Crowley. “And Kami the…”

She swallowed. “Lesbian!” She took in a deep breath. “But don’t tell my parents yet.”

“They’re so wrong,” said Reya, radiating the anger that Crowley knew she reserved for bullies.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale sympathetically. “Are they…intolerant?” He said _intolerant _the way humans spoke of particular bodily functions, or Gabriel spoke of food.

Kami sighed.

“Yes,” said Crowley, a hint of a growl coming through.

“Mm-hmm,” three teenagers chorused in angry agreement.

“But,” Kami said, balling up another tissue, “they can get better. The stuff Crowley did will probably help.”

“The stuff Crowley did?” Aziraphale echoed, managing a glance in Crowley’s general direction. “What sort of…stuff…was that?”

Crowley draped himself across his chair again, grumbling inarticulately. This left Aziraphale the only one standing, his hands neatly clasped across his waistcoat. Maya levered herself out of the couch cushions to bring him a chair, which she placed immediately next to Crowley’s, such that their elbows would jostle each other if they moved at all.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale smiled at her, seating himself in his precise manner, somehow manufacturing a few inches of space between himself and Crowley that felt as impenetrable as the pentagram wall.

“Crowley’s been doing lots of stuff!” Kami enthused. “He got Kasey a…a magic tutor—”

“I was tempting her into occultism,” Crowley protested. “And stopping her from harassing _me _in future.”

“And he gave me biology study tips,” Kasey added—

“That—that was me encouraging cheating—”

“—and created an art scholarship for Maya,” she finished.

“Encouraging her to pursue a risky career.” Crowley folded his arms.

“He made Reya see that she’s too good for her boyfriend,” Maya contributed.

“I was…interfering with a relationship!”

“_And _he fixed Maya and Kami’s love life,” supplied Reya.

“I was…ngk…that was…eh.” Crowley hunched farther down in his chair. Aziraphale was now looking at him with that fond smile that preceded him maundering about Crowley being _nice_, and made Crowley want to either slam him against a wall or pour out all of his heart into the words of a toast. “It was…all part of the…the bargain,” he mumbled half-heartedly.

“My biology test wasn’t,” Kasey contradicted him immediately.

“And you did the parent thing for free. You said so,” Kami supplemented helpfully, then turned to Aziraphale. “He broke their cable so they can maybe clear their heads.”

Thankfully, this confused Aziraphale enough to distract him from whatever he had been about to say about Crowley’s niceness. “Broke their…what, my dear?”

“Television, angel,” Crowley stepped in—by the time Aziraphale understood “cable,” it would have been out of use for at least a quarter century—“Remember the angry fellows Dowling always watched? I disabled them for her parents.”

“Ahh,” Aziraphale nodded. “Indeed. Quite right.”

“In fact, angel,” Crowley said, “you think you could…move things along for them? Y’know I can’t make them tolerant. It’s a virtue; it’s out of my…factory. Garage. Wherever it is that things are out of when you can’t do them.”

“Well, I can’t either, Crowley. You know I can’t interfere with free will any more than you can. Not permanently.”

“You made a mafia thug open a flower shop!”

“I didn’t _make _him. He’d always wanted to. I simply…helped him see his options more clearly. And a good thing I did. He makes lovely chrysanthemum arrangements.”

“Well?” Crowley demanded, waving a hand to indicate that Aziraphale should start that process in this situation as soon as possible. The "seeing options clearly" process. Not the chrysanthemums.

Aziraphale pursed his lips and patted Crowley’s arm. “Of course, my dear.”

“He does the puppy-dog eyes too!” a teenager whispered carryingly.

“Oh, you’ve _no _idea,” sighed Aziraphale, with an impressive eye roll of his own.

“Ack—eck—I don’t—I have _snake _eyes!”

“Of course you do,” Aziraphale said absently, focused on whatever he was doing for—or to—Kami’s parents. “There you are, my dear,” he told her presently. “I’ve helped clarify some priorities for them. And I’ve placed some literature where they should come across it over the next few weeks. Of course, they still have to make the right choice for themselves, but I believe I’ve made that easier for them.”

“Um, thanks,” said Kami, shredding her tissue. She darted an anxious glance at Maya. “Your parents are…cool, right?”

Maya waved a hand. “They knew I was bi before I did, I think. I was trying to explain it to Mom, and she was like, ‘Yes, honey, but you still need to put up your laundry.’”

Kami nodded, looked back at Aziraphale. “Um...do I need to do something for you in return?”

“Heavens, no!” exclaimed Aziraphale. “Of course not. Why would you need to…”

“He’s an _angel_.”—Crowley made the name sound as insulting as possible, and felt Aziraphale’s eyes glance toward him with their usual resigned annoyance—“He does _blessings_, not bargains.”

“That’s quite right,” the angel said sanctimoniously. “We…” He paused. “That is, I don’t ask for anything in return. That’s the true nature of a blessing. Or it certainly should be.” He frowned suspiciously at Crowley. “I do hope he didn’t ask you to do anything too onerous.”

“_Onerous_?” spluttered Crowley indignantly.

“Oh no, he was very nice,” said Kami.

“_Nice_?!” Crowley was past indignation now. “I’m _not nice_!”

“Don’t touch your hair,” Kami ordered him. “And he _was_,” she reported to Aziraphale. “He let us choose our own bargains, mostly. I did his hair and makeup.”

“Did you, my dear?” Aziraphale studied Crowley’s face with a look that started off appraising but turned to…something softer.

“And I did his nails,” said Reya with justified pride. Crowley sighed and held out his right hand for inspection, realizing a few moments too late that this was a mistake, because Aziraphale was automatically reaching for his hand—

The angel stopped in midair and then jerked his hand back, wriggling himself into his seat in a way that re-created the impenetrable few inches of space between them. “Yes. Quite.” He laughed awkwardly. “You did a lovely job, my dear,” he told Reya. Crowley noted several impatient teenage eye rolls.

“Not too _onerous_, I hope,” he said caustically, to cover his…whatever his face was doing at the thought of what it might have felt like to have Aziraphale’s fingers gently touching his.

Aziraphale ignored him and turned to Maya. “And what did—”

“Oh! Hey!” Crowley interrupted, because Maya was reaching for her drawing of Aziraphale. “Got you a book.” He fumbled hastily for his pocket and pulled out the faded, unintelligible (to him) spellbook. Or whatever it was.

“Ohhh,” Aziraphale breathed, his eyes widening as he took the book reverently. Crowley watched him, hoping it wasn’t obvious that his insides were entirely melted. “But this is the”—he said a long string of words that were thoroughly incomprehensible to Crowley. “Crowley”—he looked up at him with that beaming smile (Crowley’s already-melted insides defied physics by melting _again_)—“that was very…” His eyebrows drew together in a concerned frown. “Crowley. You used your bargain…to get a book for _me_?”

Oh.

“Nnnng, well, don’t go on about it,” he said, waving a hand as dismissively as he could manage when his bones were liquefied twice over. “I just wanted it looked after properly—not lying about for humans to be Summoning demons all over the place. Or pulling me out of bed in the middle of the night over and over, or—”

“He got you a book the last time he was Summoned also. That Nostradamus book.” This was from Kasey. Crowley shot her a deeply betrayed look, which she ignored.

Of course Aziraphale knew exactly which book she meant.

“The Lost Prophecies?” he said, startled. “You never told me you got that from being Summoned. You didn’t even tell me you _were _Summoned.”

“Wheelhouse!” Crowley shouted.

Nobody jumped. Aziraphale merely blinked at him. The girls sighed.

“Not in my wheelhouse,” he elaborated. “When you can’t do things. That’s where they…”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale firmly, and he knew he would have to explain the last time he was Summoned.

“It’s not…it wasn’t important. Barely took any time. Not like _this _lot.” He indicated the girls, who didn’t look remotely abashed.

“The man who Summoned him had a kid who was sick and would have died,” Maya explained. “He saved the kid’s life, and made the man give him that book in return, so he could give it to you.” The girls looked from Aziraphale to Crowley expectantly.

Aziraphale turned slowly to look fully at Crowley, that expression just on the edge of pain back on his face. “You never said.”

“Ehhh, don’t go _on _about it,” Crowley mumbled, trying to compress himself even farther into his chair. “He didn’t have anything interesting; I had to choose _something_.”

“But Crowley…I’ve always said you’re kind…but there’s kindness, and then there’s…” He fluttered his hands. “You saved his child’s life, and all you asked for was a book…for me? That you didn’t even want? Why would you do that, Crowley?”

“Jesus Lord,” Maya hissed. “Both of you.”

Aziraphale blinked; turned back toward her. “Both of us…what, precisely? My dear?”

The girls exchanged aggravated glances. Kami sighed. “You’ve got to tell him,” she said to the angel. “We’ve been trying to tell him all night that you’re in love with him too, but he won’t listen.”

Crowley scowled at a table, trying not to see the frightened look Aziraphale shot at him before turning it to Kami—the same look from “You go too fast for me, Crowley” and “Go off…together?”—

“I’m in love with him…_too_?” Aziraphale asked the girls at large.

“Look, angel, eurrrgh, sorry,” Crowley tried to speak normally, “they’ve got this idea—I know that’s not how you feel. It’s fine.” No truth lock now; he could lie all he wanted. “We should probably be going—”

“Shut up,” said more than one teenage voice. “And don’t touch your hair,” added Kami.

“Nnnnngh,” said Crowley, and, suddenly incapable of remaining seated any longer, jerked to his feet and stalked off, choosing his direction at random.

“You said,” came Aziraphale’s voice, a thin sheet of forced calm over a sea of terror, “that I’m in love with him _too_. _Also_. _In addition_. I’m in love with him…in addition to _what_, exactly?”

Kasey whispered something that was probably profane. “Six thousand years, and you haven’t seen it?”

Aziraphale stared at her. “N-no. You can’t mean…”

Reya gave an eye roll that was truly epic. “We’ve had him in a truth lock all night. We _do _mean.”

Crowley, gripping the back of a chair and staring at the wall, felt Aziraphale’s gaze dart to him like a burning wire across his face.

“You’re…you’re sure?” The angel directed this at the girls, who looked at him, looked at Crowley, looked at each other.

“Very.” It was Kami who answered. “But I don’t think we can do this for you,” she said sympathetically. “I think it’s on you.”

Crowley found that he was pacing again, presumably in a useless effort to escape the sense of impending doom settling on him—after 6000 years, he’d finally settled into a comfortable routine closer to his angel than ever—well, not comfortable; it was exquisitely painful, but finally Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind his staying at the bookshop, didn’t push him away with prickly talk about either of their sides not approving. Crowley had managed to insinuate himself into all the hours of the angel’s day without him noticing, or at least without him sending him off; just a nominal trip to his own flat every now and then so he could pretend he wasn’t actually _living _at the bookshop…

And it was going to be shattered, he thought, watching Aziraphale getting to his feet, straightening his bow tie, giving his sleeves sharp little tugs, it would be shattered along with his heart, again, just like he’d watched over and over in the pentagram tonight…

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said carefully, stopping a good three feet away from him, “they said…they seem to think you’re in love with me…also. Are—are they right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY IT'S ANOTHER CLIFFHANGER


	7. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know that gif of the guy from The Office saying "It's happening! It's happening!"? That's this chapter. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this fic; your lovely comments are so encouraging! One more chapter after this one!

Crowley was frozen.

Aziraphale’s face was more frightened than he’d seen it all night, and as stricken as it had been in the memory from the ruined church, and in the face of that, Crowley couldn’t talk, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. And he _needed _to think, needed to parse and pick apart and put back together what Aziraphale had just said—

_Also_.

You’re in love with me…also.

That couldn’t mean what he thought, what he desperately, frantically, foolishly hoped it meant.

Could he say no?

Say no, tell Aziraphale that these American teenagers had ridiculously romantic imaginations, take the angel and go back to their ordinary, careful life?

Lie about the part of himself that had been his most fundamental bedrock for six millennia?

No truth lock. He could lie all he wanted.

And he’d been performing this lie for six millennia; it was practiced; he could recite it yet again with ease…

Not with Aziraphale looking at him like that. He couldn’t say _anything _with Aziraphale looking at him like that.

“Crowley?”

The angel’s anxious, beautiful face started to crumple. Crowley couldn’t have that. He took in a breath that hissed through his teeth, took a step that closed the space between them—

“Hey, Aziraphale,” he said—his hand took the angel’s, apparently of its own accord, because he had _definitely not _given it permission to do so. Aziraphale’s hand was soft and warm, and it tightened on his own long, bony hand like it was a lifeline, and most of Crowley was a supernova, a galaxy of supernovas, and it was extremely strange to hear an exploding galaxy say in his ordinary voice, “Would you like to come with me to get coffee…uh…breakfast…in Atlanta?”

Aziraphale’s anxious face transformed into the smile that always made Crowley feel he was in Heaven—only a far better Heaven than the actual Heaven—“I’d love to, my dear.”

And possibly Crowley’s world _was _shattering, not at all in the way he’d expected, shattering like the pentagram disintegrating, letting him out into a bigger, freer space—

Reya, looking between the two of them: “You still haven’t made it official. Is it a date? Are you a couple now?”

Aziraphale looked at him, that tremulous anxiety playing across his face again—

“Yes, dammit, it’ssss a date,” Crowley growled in the two seconds before his courage failed him. “Are—are we a couple?” His voice went all soft like it had in the Bentley when he’d offered Aziraphale a ride—or his heart—and please, please, not again, had he gone too fast again—

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, ducking his head, smiling hesitantly, interlacing their fingers. “I’ve wanted us to be a couple since…well, I’m not completely certain, to be quite honest.” He paused, set his chin in an attempt at firmness. “Sometime before 1941.”

It was a good thing they were still holding hands, because Aziraphale’s hand was the only thing holding Crowley up. Or the only thing anchoring him to solid ground; he wasn’t sure. And since Crowley certainly couldn’t produce coherent words or even sounds at that moment, it was also a good thing that Kami burst in with a triumphant:

“Told you!”

Aziraphale started. Crowley probably did also, but he wasn’t especially aware of what most of his body was doing at that point.

“Told…who?” Aziraphale asked, turning toward her slowly. “My dear?”

“You haven’t heard about my bargain yet,” answered Maya. From somewhere in the haze enveloping him, Crowley noted that she and Kami were holding hands as well now. “Because _somebody_”—she gave Crowley her driest eyebrow raise—“stopped you from asking—anyway, his bargain with me was that he wanted a portrait of you.”

“Did he?” Aziraphale’s voice was shaky, and his hand clenched harder on Crowley’s.

“Nnnnh,” said Crowley.

“So I needed a picture to work from, and Kasey did this thing with memories—”

“Metaphysical projection,” supplied Kasey, as if she discussed the topic every day.

“_Kasey _did a thing?”—Crowley croakily tried out language again—“It was _my _idea.”

“Whatever,” Maya said, and continued explaining to Aziraphale: “The point is, the one from 1941 was when you could really see—um, well, how much you love him.” She retrieved the drawing from a table. “Here. _He _hasn’t even seen it yet.” Her eyebrows indicated Crowley.

She was right; he hadn’t. How odd.

He looked down at it and froze again. (How many times that night?)

All he could really see was his angel’s face. It was later that he took in other details—the flaming, ruined background done in faint strokes suggesting celebratory fireworks rather than destruction, the statue behind Aziraphale expanded so that the wings were a shadowy hint of his true wings—but all he saw now was Aziraphale, all whites and creams and golds in a softly glowing style, eyes unfocused, lips gently parted, stunned, frozen…

Lovestruck?

Aziraphale?

For _him_?

His mind automatically rejected the idea, falling into its deeply-trodden ruts established for thousands of years—Aziraphale loved everything; of course he _cared _for Crowley, the same as he cared for books and decades-old clothes and sushi; but core-deep, possessive, possessing, aching love like Crowley felt wasn’t something he—

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “Y-yes, that…does rather give it away, doesn’t it?”

“Not to _him_,” said Kami, rolling her eyes at Crowley.

“But to anyone else on the planet, yes,” said Reya.

“D-does it?’ Crowley asked, creakily.

Everyone rolled their eyes again, except Aziraphale, who looked at Crowley with an anxious frown. “You don’t see it, my dear?” he asked.

“Ehnnngh,” said Crowley, weakly. “Angel…”

It wasn’t that he didn’t see it; it was that he couldn’t grasp it; it was like trying to wrap his arms around a mountain.

“It’s a lot to adjust to,” said Maya. She was watching Crowley with quiet sympathy.

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “Yes. It is, yes.” He shifted his shoulders and gazed around the room as if just now seeing it. “Shall we sit down, perhaps?”

The well-worn habit of perching on a separate piece of furniture from Aziraphale—always, always maintaining that invisible barrier—nearly took Crowley back to his original chair—would have, in fact, except that Aziraphale still had his hand, and tightened his hold when Crowley started veering away, with a glance that was questioning, worried—so he found himself with the arm of the couch on his left and Aziraphale to his right, their hands still clasped and their thighs barely an inch apart as they sank into the ancient cushions. Some part of his mind still had the detachment to wonder how they would ever get back out.

Another part of his mind pointed out that he might not mind if they didn’t.

Reya made a beeline for the armchair; Kami and Maya looked at each other a bit awkwardly and took the chairs that had been Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s. Kasey frowned at all of them and went off to start a fresh pot of coffee.

“So,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley was frankly impressed at his ability to use nearly his ordinary, fussily kind talking-to-humans voice, “do tell me about the…ah…metaphysical memory projection.”

“Oh, right, that was cool,” said Maya, pulling out her phone (Kami nodded enthusiastically). “Kasey’ll have to explain how it worked; it was something about using the pentagram like a projector screen”—

“Movie theater screen,” Crowley translated automatically for Aziraphale, surprised that he could make his vocal cords and mouth work together in this new reality.

“I _know_, Crowley,” Aziraphale retorted, as Kasey dragged a chair over for herself, the coffee pot gurgling away behind her, the familiar, early-morning smell of coffee beginning to permeate the room. “She used a metaphysical surface to make non-corporeal images visible in this plane of reality.”

“Show off,” muttered Crowley, then was hit with a wave of panic—could he still do that sort of thing? Now that they were…now that they…

“That was very accomplished of you, my dear,” Aziraphale told Kasey, ignoring Crowley as sublimely as ever but also squeezing his hand—affectionately? Was that an affectionate squeeze? Was that a thing they did now? Crowley’s wave of panic subsided—well, no; it didn’t; it was just joined by a wash of confusion.

“Anyway,” Maya was saying, showing Aziraphale her phone, “it looked like this.”

“Oh!” said Aziraphale. The image of himself, on someone else’s phone, floating in someone else’s basement, was no doubt disconcerting. “That…was that your memory, my dear?” He turned toward Crowley.

Any time prior to this morning, Crowley would have mocked the angel mercilessly (_What kind of a question is that? Who else’s memory d’you think it was?_). But Aziraphale’s eyes were soft and vulnerable, full of the longing and light from the glances he’d been sneaking at Crowley for centuries…

“Apparently,” said Crowley hoarsely. And then, suddenly desperate to hear it said out loud: “They said…ehhhnnn…that was when you…_was _that when you…?” He waved his left hand (the one not clinging to Aziraphale’s) to compensate for his inability to articulate…much of anything.

“Fell in love with you?” Aziraphale paused; they were so close together that Crowley could hear the quaver in the breath he took in. “Rather a long time before that, I should think.” The angel resolutely steadied his voice. “That was simply when I…realized.”

Crowley made another go at the mountain that was the idea that Aziraphale might love him back. He got a little farther this time before tumbling back down, still not fully grasping it.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was less steady now. “When did you…realize…?” His eyes, round and uncertain, searched Crowley’s face.

“That I was…in love with you?” Crowley asked, crammed full of too many emotions to even identify them; somehow his voice emerged in that soft, gentle tone again, and he might need to learn how to make it do that on purpose, if it would make Aziraphale’s face do what it was doing right now. “Eh, I didn’t have to realize, angel. I always knew.” He’d been furious about it, fought it, cursed it, avoided it, tried to sleep it off—but he’d always known it.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, his voice tiny; he tried to smile, but his lips were trembling too much. “Then…was there a time…that is to say…when did you…first feel…?” He opened and closed his right hand; his left closed more tightly on Crowley’s.

Crowley tilted his head back and forth against his shoulders; he wasn’t _ready _for this conversation, not at all; this would be laying bare his whole heart, every part of him…

And there was his angel, waiting, frightened, having just done the same thing for him.

Crowley swallowed and forced his mouth to work. “Do—do you remember when you gave your sword away?”

Aziraphale’s forehead creased in confusion; he opened his mouth, closed it again, then, warily: “Do you mean to the delivery man?”

Crowley’s mind was on a wall overlooking Eden; it took him several seconds to remember a surreal visit from a not-dead delivery man after not-Mageddon. “What?” he spluttered. “No, of course not to the bloody delivery man! I meant—for, for someone’s sake, angel! I meant the first time.”

The angel pressed shaking lips together. “In…Eden?” His face had gone unbearably soft, and words failed Crowley yet again. “We’d…you’d only just met me.”

“Y-yeah,” Crowley rasped. “I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale drew himself up, looking almost offended. “Why the _Hell _would you apologize?”

Crowley gestured at random with the hand not holding Aziraphale’s while he worked to get words out. “Just…y’know. Too fast, and all.”

“My dear.” (_How _could he pour that much warmth into two syllables?) He wrapped both hands around Crowley’s. “You weren’t the one moving at the wrong speed.”

Crowley was melting all over again, and he thought he could stay in that spot, lost in his angel’s gaze, for—

A muffled squeak sounded from a few feet away.

Crowley and Aziraphale both turned slowly to face four American teenagers, eyes wide and dewy (well, not Kasey’s). Kami had her hand clapped over her mouth. “Sorry!” she whispered.

“Do you know,” said Aziraphale, “of all the ways I’d imagined having that conversation, none of them involved this particular audience.”

“Ehhnnngehk,” Crowley agreed.

“We could go in a different room?” Kami offered.

Crowley thought this an excellent idea and was startled when Aziraphale overrode it. “As a matter of fact,” Aziraphale said, smoothing his waistcoat with his free hand (entirely unnecessarily), “well, I was rather hoping—” he shot a glance at Crowley, then looked to Maya. “You created a lovely portrait for Crowley of…of a certain moment. I…I should like to commission…a matching portrait. Of Crowley.”

“A matching…” Crowley felt his ears burning. “You can’t mean…not me in that church. Hopping around. And with that hat.”

“You looked very dashing, my dear,” Aziraphale said, with another squeeze of Crowley’s hand (Crowley had only _thought _his ears were burning before), “but, as a matter of fact, I doubt that’s the moment I mean. I…I believe I might mean the…well. The moment you mentioned in Eden.”

“You want a portrait of when he fell in love with you,” Kami clarified. “Don’t touch your hair,” she added, to Crowley.

“Y-yes, my dear,” Aziraphale replied. “That’s a splendid summary.”

“I would need something to go on, though,” Maya pointed out. “With your portrait—uh, I mean the one _of _you, we had his memories. We don’t have the pentagram anymore for Kasey to project anything.”

“Ah, well, I believe we can remedy that. If we simply re-light the candles—”

“No,” interrupted Crowley, tensing, “Aziraphale, no, the last time you…did that, made a pentagram—”

“That was a portal, my dear,” said Aziraphale reassuringly. “This will merely be an empty pentagram. Entirely different…ah…mechanism.”

Crowley still shivered and didn’t watch as the girls set out the candles again. Kasey and Maya lit them; Reya and Kami brought coffee over. (Aziraphale’s mug said “Have a Blessed Day!” while Crowley’s said “I Believe in Angels,” and had an odiously sentimental illustration of two cherubs kissing. He glowered at Kami, who smiled back at him innocently.)

With the candles lit, Aziraphale simply snapped his fingers and brought a pentagram into existence (“Still showing off,” muttered Crowley, while keeping an iron grip on the angel’s hand).

“Now, my dear,” Aziraphale said to Kasey, “I suppose I should take your hand, perhaps?”

“Be careful; she’ll jump into your head,” Crowley said as Aziraphale took Kasey’s hand in that delicate and courteous way he had, triggering Crowley’s customary pang of jealousy until he remembered that he was, in fact, currently holding the angel’s other hand.

“I will not,” snapped Kasey. “I’ve got it—oh.” She paused. “I really won’t. He’s locked up way tighter than you were.” She looked at Aziraphale. “You need to relax more.”

“So I’ve heard,” sighed Aziraphale, with one of his extremely dry side glances at Crowley. Crowley tried to grin wickedly, but was fairly certain it came out tenderly instead.

“Well, give me something,” said Kasey impatiently. “Think about Crowley and send it to me—whoa—ok, actually slow down; you’re flooding me—ok, yeah, just one at a time, let’s start with whatever’s fresh on your mind—”

She turned toward the pentagram and focused. It took Crowley a few seconds to recognize that the image was himself, right now—or, rather, himself a few minutes ago, standing in the center of Maya’s basement.

“Oh, that’s right,” said Maya from her seat next to Kami. “You haven’t seen yourself yet.”

Crowley could see why Aziraphale had been startled at the sight of him. He’d taken on human female form from time to time over the millennia, but this was a different level. His hair—in theory, the basic shape was the same as the half-bun he’d worn not long ago, but the effect now was vastly more beautiful. It cascaded in red curls down his back, loosely contained by a soft braid on each side, pulled together at the back of his head. Gently spiraling tendrils framed his face—his face that scarcely looked like his—or rather, it did, only with the sharp edges smoothed. His lips were a deep maroon like a richer, darker version of his hair; his cheeks were brushed with the same shade, accenting but also gentling his cheekbones. His eyes were perfectly lined and winged, shadowed with a smoky charcoal tone that somehow turned their yellow into a mellow gold.

“Huh,” he managed. Kami smirked and sipped coffee.

“You good?” Kasey asked. “Can we move on to the one you want—argh! Wow, it really is all or nothing with you, isn’t it?” Her face was strained and squinting as images of Crowley flowed dizzyingly past on the pentagram. He caught snatches of himself holding a tartan thermos in the Bentley, lurking in the Bastille, sulking in Rome…finally, the cavalcade of memories lurched to a stop on a wall dividing lush greenery from blazing sand. Kasey took in a deep breath.

“I’m terribly sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale told her. “Are you alright?”

“Yep,” she said, giving her head a shake. “It’s kind of like a roller coaster.”

“She hates those,” explained Reya. Her coffee mug was decorated with footballs, which probably weren’t called that in America.

“Overstimulating,” Kasey agreed. “But survivable,” she added to stop Aziraphale’s fussing. She gestured at the pentagram. “What are we looking at?”

“Well.” Aziraphale’s voice turned fond, like it had on the airfield last summer, and this time Crowley didn’t shush him, just watched his profile (so. damn. beautiful.) as he told the story of how Eden’s Guardian met Eden’s Serpent. The girls watched the memories slide by as the guardian gave away his sword and the serpent gave away his heart—

“Oh, right there, pause it, Kasey,” said Kami.

“Mmm-hm,” said Maya, pulling out her phone.

“Th-there?” Aziraphale looked at the girls, then looked, quickly and shyly, at Crowley. The memory was frozen on a view of Crowley with greenery behind him, delightedly surprised, just after hearing the angel admit to giving away the sword (“You _what_?”), admit to caring more about kindness than rules—“Crowley, was that—?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, hoarse again. “That was all it took.” He gazed at his angel, the face so intimately familiar by now but somehow just as surprising as it had been that first time. “Fell all over again.”

Aziraphale gazed back at him, pressing his lips together, and Crowley felt yet another pang of fear that he’d trespassed, gone too far or too fast again—and then the angel gave a wriggle that closed the inch between them, settled himself against Crowley’s side. “Well then. That’s that.”

“That’s what I need,” said Maya, giving an evaluative nod to the picture she’d captured on her phone. “But you still have an hour before the restaurant’s open.”

“It’ll take him that long to decide on a place,” grumbled Crowley. It had never, perhaps, fully registered with him how much he enjoyed making the angel give him that annoyed side glance.

“Well, it’s our first time in a new city,” Aziraphale defended himself. “We have to choose carefully to be sure we have the most authentic experience, and—”

“Oh, we’ve already picked one out for you,” Reya informed them. “And I put a MARTA app on your phone so you can navigate.”

“You what?” Crowley demanded, in a very different tone from the one he’d used long ago toward Aziraphale.

“Anyway,” Maya changed the subject firmly, “we still have an hour—”

“Can I try something?” asked Kasey. “I’ve done their memories one at a time, but…what about at the same time? You know, get the whole scene.”

This took several tries to get right, because Aziraphale, as Kasey had mentioned, had a tendency to either lock down completely or release his memories at a thundering gallop. By the time they got to Rome, they’d mostly gotten the hang of it (“Just think about oysters,” Crowley advised Aziraphale), and they moved at the same speed through the…bar? Tavern? What had they called little places like that in Rome?

“Told you he was flirting,” said Kami. Crowley stiffened in trepidation at what Aziraphale’s reaction might be—

“Mmm,” the angel said primly, and took a sip of coffee.

Crowley choked.

They moved on through a few more civilizations (with various words for restaurants), Crowley’s head spinning with the idea that…

…All this time? Or…even some of it? Aziraphale had loved him too?

With each image he made another run at that mountain, got a little farther, still couldn’t get all the way.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, sat extraordinarily still, even for him, his eyes narrowed with concentration that rivaled Kasey’s as he stared at the passing images, some sort of very solid conviction strengthening in his face that Crowley didn’t quite understand.

They stalled out in 1941 when the girls couldn’t stop giggling at Crowley’s hopping around the church. Crowley was working to stop Aziraphale from being offended on his behalf—“Honestly, angel, it _was _a bit funny, don’t”—

The images vanished, and Kasey leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. “I’m about done,” she said. “Reya, give me the armchair; I’m going to take a nap. Y’all blow out the candles.”

“Well, it’s about time we went anyway, yeah?” Crowley asked, awkwardly, checking the time on his phone. How exactly did you say goodbye to people who’d kidnapped you and then spent a night sharing your most intimate memories? He tried to cover the moment by dragging himself out of the couch cushions.

“You’ll have to come back later to get your portrait,” Maya reminded them as she extinguished the last candle and Crowley pulled Aziraphale from the depths of his cushion, thinking of it automatically as an excuse to take the angel's hand, then losing his place again as Aziraphale kept hold of his hand once they were standing.

“You can’t go in your pajamas,” Reya told Crowley.

“Oh yeah,” Crowley said, looking down at his black silk sleepwear. He snapped his fingers, and it transformed into his usual tightly fitting pants, black jacket, etc.

“No,” said several teenage voices emphatically. He scowled at them but had to admit (only to himself) that they had a point. Another snap of his fingers, and the pants transformed into a charcoal-grey pencil skirt, the jacket and waistcoat to a black silk shirt with a dark maroon collar and long sleeves flared at the wrist.

“Ooh, _that’s _better,” said someone. Crowley ignored her and looked instead to Aziraphale for approval.

“That’s—” The angel was a bit dazed. (_He’s looking at your lips_.) “That’s very elegant, my dear.”

“You do have to get out of here, though,” Maya said. “I mean—not to be rude—it’s just, there’s zero chance I could explain two strange men in the basement to my parents once they wake up.”

“Well, strictly speaking, we’re not men,” Aziraphale started—

“Yeah…” said Maya, “that wouldn’t help.”

“Come on, angel,” said Crowley, putting on his sunglasses, “let’s go figure out MARTA.”

Between Reya’s app and a couple of miracles to acquire passes, navigating MARTA was accomplished with relative ease. Their ride was just long enough for Crowley to send Anathema a text, warning her that an American teenager would be contacting her about…witchery, occultism, calling her cat funny names, however she was describing it these days, while Aziraphale soaked in the scenery—mostly bare trees, modest-sized buildings, and streetlights with Christmas wreaths, but he soaked it in anyway. They arrived at the restaurant a few minutes after it opened (Aziraphale tucked Crowley’s hand into the crook of his elbow as they strolled to it; Crowley managed not to pass out). It was on the ground floor of newish loft apartments, something boring like a bank on one side and something quirky and brightly colored on the other. The restaurant itself was decorated for Christmas in a way that made Crowley roll his eyes and Aziraphale beam beatifically, with twinkle lights and handmade ornaments (for sale, Crowley noted) hanging from the ceiling (its description on Crowley’s restaurant app had words like _locally sourced, Southern classics as well as new favorites, comfort food and baked goods, cozy_). Aziraphale was inexplicably familiar with “Southern classics” for someone who thought the burning of Atlanta was a recent event (“oh, my dear, it’s been simply _ages _since I had a good bananas Foster,” he told their server, with whom he had instantly become friends).

Their dining routine was as familiar as ever. Aziraphale ate while Crowley nibbled and mostly watched Aziraphale; they chatted and argued about inconsequential topics.

…And their dining routine was utterly unfamiliar. Aziraphale snuck glances at Crowley and forgot about eating every time, spending long seconds with his fork frozen in midair, his eyes traveling over Crowley’s face (_he’s looking at your lips_). Crowley watched Aziraphale, and knew that Aziraphale knew that he was watching him, and knew that Aziraphale knew _why _he was watching him, and still couldn’t stop watching him. They both lost their place in their conversation over and over, started again on topics miles from the last one.

They had reached the point where Crowley would offer the rest of his food to Aziraphale—whatever the angel had ordered for him was tasty, but more food than he would eat in a week or possibly a month—when they both jumped—Crowley’s phone had buzzed. He shook himself, reoriented to reality outside of Aziraphale’s face, and picked it up.

“That witch!” he exclaimed.

“Really, Crowley!” Aziraphale objected. “Language, my dear.”

“No, I mean, that _actual _witch,” said Crowley. “She’s programmed herself into my phone.” He showed it to Aziraphale; the screen showed a message from “Professor KC.”

<How’s it going? Any problems with MARTA?>

Crowley frowned and texted back:

<Nosy.>

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale admonished him. “Tell her things are going splendidly, and thank them kindly for the, ah, _app _for the MARTA.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

<Aziraphale says I have to tell you that things are splendid, and thanks for the MARTA “app”>

Another text came through, this one from “Maya DRAWZZZZ.”

<Tell him the portrait’s almost done!>

“Did they _all _program themselves in?” Crowley demanded.

Another one popped up:

<How’s the restaurant?> This was from “Reya5Stripes4Life,” which Crowley had to read three times before being sure he had it correct.

“What on Earth does that mean?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley peered at it. “It might be something to do with…what _is _the American word for football?”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “Well, _I’ve _no idea. Billiards, perhaps?”

Crowley pondered that. “Doesn’t sound very American. It’s something simple. Pong. Pog? Frogger. Something like that.”

Aziraphale gestured with his fork. “Just eat your eggs. And tell her the restaurant is delicious.”

Crowley looked back down to do so and saw that yet another message had arrived, this one from “Kami the Nerd:”

<Have you kissed him yet?>

He choked and snatched the phone away from Aziraphale’s gaze. He’d just now begun grasping, begun getting even close to grasping, that this was real, that Aziraphale felt the same for him—or anything approaching the same for him—that he’d felt for the angel all this time, and he was _not _going to ruin it, not going to move too fast, not going to move _anywhere _unless Aziraphale was moving at the same pace, and he didn’t care if that meant they moved at the pace of a glacier. He started texting back:

<Took us 6000 yrs to get to hand-holding, will take at least another century—

A soft hand with well-tended nails covered his, stopping his reply and sending goose bumps up his arm all the way to the back of his neck. He looked up into Aziraphale’s eyes, suddenly much closer to his. Forgot about texting, MARTA, eggs, breathing, air.

“A-angel?” His voice was nearly soundless.

Aziraphale’s hand still clasped his securely on the table; the other one, trembling but determined, drew Crowley’s chin toward his—

_He’s looking at your lips_.

And then he wasn’t anymore, because their lips were together, tentatively and then more firmly, and Crowley was an exploding galaxy again—somehow his free hand found the angel’s waist, held on so he wouldn’t fall over; Aziraphale was quivering all over but guided both of them through the kiss, a few eternal seconds of closer, sweeter intimacy than Crowley had ever dared hope for, then Aziraphale pulled back, gently, his eyes re-opening, wide and possibly terrified at his own daring, and Crowley could _drown _in those eyes…

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“Q-quite,” said Aziraphale, still shakily. He settled himself back in his seat, breathed in and out, and nodded toward Crowley’s phone.

"Tell her _I _kissed _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter coming to wrap things up!


	8. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really just some fluff to finish up a few loose ends!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've tried this format (text conversations)...let me know if it works!

(Y'ALL!! This chapter now has GORGEOUS art by [thelasthomelyurl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amerande) (AO3 link, [here's the tumblr link](https://thelasthomelyurl.tumblr.com))--read all the way to the end for this lovely treat!!)

Text conversation, Crowley’s phone, December 25, 2019

3:30pm (London time)

Kami the Nerd: <Merry Christmas!!!>

You: <Who the Heaven tells a demon Merry Christmas???>

Kami the Nerd: <Oh right, you’re in the UK. HAPPY Christmas!>

You: <eyeroll emoji>

You: <Aziraphale says I have to tell you thank you, we’re having a lovely holiday and we hope you are too.>

Kami the Nerd: <Did you get the mug for him???>

You: <Of course I got the mug for him, I’m a demon, we run most of Amazon>

(Aziraphale was currently drinking peppermint cocoa from a Not Today Satan mug. Well, strictly speaking, he was letting the peppermint cocoa get cold while he debated over where to display the handmade ornament bought from a breakfast café in Atlanta that specialized in Southern classics and also new favorites.)

3:35pm

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <You said you were getting the portraits framed for Xmas, send me a pic!>

You: <Merry Christmas to you too>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Who tells a demon Merry Christmas???>

You: <eyeroll emoji>

You: <Aziraphale says I have to tell you the portraits are “quite simply lovely,” and we hope you’re having a delightful holiday>

You: <image sent>

(The portraits were framed together in the back room of the bookshop, an angel and a demon gazing at each other across the millennia, one golds and creams and whites, one greens and reds and blacks. Aziraphale said it made the whole room feel steeped in love. Crowley said it made him itch, and tried unsuccessfully to limit his staring at it to times when Aziraphale wasn’t looking.)

3:40pm

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Did you schedule that nail appointment yet? Tell Aziraphale I said Merry Christmas.>

You: <What, I don’t get a Merry Christmas???>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Did you schedule the nail appointment???>

You: <eyeroll emoji>

You: <it’s on the 28th>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Good. Merry Christmas!>

You: <Who tells a demon Merry Christmas???>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <eyeroll emoji>

You: <Aziraphale says I have to tell you that we hope you and your family are having a wonderful holiday, to tell your grandmother (again) that the tamales were scrumptious, and that no we haven’t found any in England that are remotely close to as good>

3:45pm

You: <Merry Christmas>

Professor KC: <Who tells a witch Merry Christmas???>

You: <Aziraphale said I had to>

Professor KC: <Since you’re in England, shouldn’t it be HAPPY Christmas?>

You: <eyeroll emoji>

You: <How’s your mom doing with the grant application?>

Professor KC: <She’s in full deadline mode. Wouldn’t eat or sleep if her grad student and I didn’t make her.>

You: <Aziraphale says “oh dear” and wants me to express concern that our “little scheme” may have resulted in an unsatisfactory Christmas for you>

Professor KC: <Tell him that A) I don’t celebrate Christmas, B) He worries too much, and C) I’m going over to Reya’s in a few minutes for Christmas lunch, Maya’s this evening for Christmas dinner, and Kami’s tomorrow for day-after-Christmas brunch.>

You: <A) I’m sure Kami knows that’s called Boxing Day, B) Aziraphale is very relieved, and C) Don’t go summoning anything if you get bored between all the not-celebrating>

Professor KC: <eyeroll emoji>

You: <happy solstice or whatever>

Professor KC: <Thanks, happy whatever to you too>

(The “little scheme” involved a grant that had abruptly become available, strikingly well-suited to Kasey’s mother’s area of anthropological expertise, that would require travel to the Oxfordshire area for some weeks in the summer to study certain suddenly-unearthed artifacts. Coincidentally, an independent pre-university study course in “Occult and Prophetic Literature” would also become available at that time in the nearby village of Tadfield. Aziraphale was perhaps a little _too _excited about helping Anathema develop a syllabus.)

8:00pm

You: <btw, Aziraphale thinks it’s a good idea for you to practice occult-style Latin or whatever before this summer>

Professor KC: <I don’t actually have any occult-style Latin lying around, since you took the book, remember?>

You: <image sent>

You: <Here’s a sample. Something to look at if you get bored before brunch tomorrow.>

Professor KC: <That’s…an interesting choice. Was that sample your idea?>

You: <Me? Course not. I don’t read Latin, remember?>

(The book in question was currently resting on Crowley’s legs, which were resting on Aziraphale’s lap. The rest of Crowley was sprawled down the length of the couch in the back room. Aziraphale sipped his cocoa primly as he peered through his spectacles and continued to make his way through the book. “Very clever, sending pictures through the telephone lines,” he mused. “Was that one of yours or one of ours?”)

Text conversation, Crowley’s phone, January 1, 2020

3:30pm (London time)

Kami the Nerd: <Happy New Year! So…my dad was saying something yesterday at supper that I think was going to be a homophobic joke, and instead he had a coughing fit?>

You: <Sounds like he got what he deserved>

Kami the Nerd: <It…kinda looked like what the truth lock did to you?>

You: <Fascinating>

Kami the Nerd: <What did you do?????>

You: <Aziraphale says to tell you we wish you a lovely New Year, and that while he hopes your father is physically well, he is very pleased that he wasn’t able to complete whatever he was trying to say, and he hopes that he very soon...nm, can’t keep up w him, basically that your dad gets his head out of his...he says I can’t say that word, but u know what I mean>

Kami the Nerd: <What did AZIRAPHALE do???????>

You: <No idea what you’re talking about. Coughing fits—not really our style. Specially not from across the bloody ocean. Sounds more occult to me.>

Kami the Nerd: <OMG>

Kami the Nerd: <What did KASEY do????????>

You: <I wouldn’t call attention to it if I were you>

Kami the Nerd: <OMG>

You: <Aziraphale would like to know how the weather is in Atlanta this New Year’s Day, and whether you have any plans?>

Kami the Nerd: <eyeroll emoji>

Kami the Nerd: <Fine>

Kami the Nerd: <Tell him it’s raining, and Maya’s doing a Doctor Who marathon with me!!>

Kami the Nerd: <That’s a TV show>

You: <From the 60s? 70s maybe. Fellow with a lot of teeth?>

Kami the Nerd: <The modern version, silly. You should watch it. Pretty sure Aziraphale would like the 10th Doctor.>

3:34pm

You: <Latin practice coming along, then?>

Professor KC: <thumbs-up emoji>

5:15pm

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Send me a pic of your nails!>

You: <Happy New Year to you too>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Do demons say Happy New Year?>

You: <Demons can say whatever they like.>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <eyeroll emoji>

You: <image sent>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <thumbs-up emoji>

7:00pm

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Do demons say Happy New Year?>

You: <demons can say whatever they like>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <eyeroll emoji>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Happy New Year!>

You: <How’s the marathon?>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Not bad>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <I’m in it for the company, really>

You: <Know the feeling>

You: <Have you kissed her yet?>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Nosy.>

You: <Yep. Probably part of a demon’s job description.>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <She kissed me, actually>

You: <thumbs-up emoji>

(After that, Aziraphale confiscated Crowley’s phone for the night.)

Text conversation, Crowley’s phone, January 25, 2020

11:30pm (London time)

Kami the Nerd: <So…my mom asked me yesterday night if Maya and I are dating??? Like, she wasn’t mad?? Just kind of…careful?>

You: <Sorry it’s taking so long>

Kami the Nerd: <Long????? It hasn’t even been two months!!!!>

You: <Aziraphale says he’s very pleased to hear about her progress but apologizes for the lengthy process. He doesn’t usually do this sort of thing remotely, he prefers the in-person touch.>

Kami the Nerd: <I figured it would take a few years tbh>

You: <YEARS??? Have a little faith!!!>

Kami the Nerd: <Telling me to have faith in a demon has gotta be a textbook example of some kind of irony>

You: <eyeroll emoji>

You: <I meant in Aziraphale>

Kami the Nerd: <Don't be silly, I have faith in you too.>

You: <Uh>

You: <Sure>

You: <So how’s your dad doing?>

Kami the Nerd: <Still has his head up his ass mostly>

You: <Language!>

You: <shocked emoji>

Kami the Nerd: <eyeroll emoji>

Kami the Nerd: <Shouldn’t you be ENCOURAGING bad language?>

You: <There’s an angel next to me!>

Kami the Nerd: <Sorry, Aziraphale!>

You: <Aziraphale says that you should feel free to express yourself in whatever terms you like about this topic, and he hopes you don’t feel the need to apologize for any language you feel is necessary to do so.>

Kami the Nerd: <Thanks, Aziraphale!>

You: <You’re very welcome, my dear.>

You: <He said to tell you that>

Kami the Nerd: <Yeah, I got that>

You: <Keep sending Kasey that info she asked for>

1:35pm

Professor KC: <Reporting in on Operation Study Hall.>

You: <Heard about Subject A’s progress?>

Professor KC: <Yep. Subject B is still moving slowly, though.>

You: <We’ve heard.>

Professor KC: <But, negative verbal habits, as evidenced by coughing fits, continue to decrease. There was one over the last 7 days. That’s down from an early high of 5 in Week 1.>

You: <Considering that your intervention has only been in place for a month, I suppose that’s good.>

Professor KC: <From a scientific perspective, we’d get clearer data if we just did one intervention at a time. Aziraphale’s intervention may have had a greater impact on Subject A because of differences in the subjects’ reading habits, which means it’s hard to tell whether Subject A was more responsive to MY intervention or was simply more heavily influenced by the literature she was exposed to.>

You: <Aziraphale says that, while he appreciates your scientific-mindedness, he is willing to sacrifice scientific control in this case "in order to facilitate your friends’ happiness, mental well-being, and, well, love.">

Professor KC: <I know, I know, I’m not actually saying we should go slower just for the science.>

Professor KC: <eyeroll emoji>

Professor KC: <I’m actually wondering how we can get Subject B greater exposure to positive influences, since your media intervention and my intervention are primarily negative. Reading isn’t really his leisure activity of choice.>

You: <Aziraphale is wringing his hands a bit and going on about how he can’t MAKE a human make the right decision, they have to CHOOSE the better option, etc.>

Professor KC: <I’m sure he is. Tell him A) To stop worrying so much, B) I have some more human interventions in mind, and C) I’m always up for more occult Latin practice if he finds anything else in that book that might be relevant.>

You: <A) He hasn’t stopped worrying for 6 millennia, but I’ll pass the message along, B) Keep us posted on the human intervention progress, and C) He hasn’t found anything without the risk of…unfortunate side effects, but we’ll keep you posted>

Text conversation, Crowley’s phone, January 26, 2020

8:45pm (London time)

You: <How’s the portfoling coming?>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <It’s coming>

You: <Aziraphale says he sends his warmest encouragement, and wants to express his confidence that whatever you create will be truly lovely>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Thanks, Aziraphale! You’re a sweetheart!>

You: <Hey, I’m a sweetheart too!>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <eyeroll emoji>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <You’d probably throw up if I called you a sweetheart>

You: <That’s not the point>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Hey, all the scholarship submission portfolios are going to be displayed in an art show in May. Y’all should come.>

You: <Crossing the Atlantic for an art show? That’s a little extreme for an angel who barely ever leaves his bookshop, but I’ll see what he thinks>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Trust me, y’all should come. Besides, he crossed the Atlantic for BREAKFAST.>

You: <Well, that’s not surprising. He once crossed the Channel and nearly got himself guillotined for crepes.>

(“Crowley,” Aziraphale said a few minutes later, in a tone that meant he was overthinking something, “you know I didn’t cross the Atlantic for breakfast, don’t you?”

Crowley, finding their place in Doctor Who Season 3, blinked at him. “Course, angel. You didn’t even know breakfast was an option at that point.”

“No—well, yes, that’s true, I suppose.” Aziraphale still looked bothered. “But that’s not what I meant. I meant—well. I crossed the Atlantic for _you_, my dear.”

“Ehnnngk,” Crowley replied, articulately. “I—y-yeah. I know that, angel.”

“Good,” said Aziraphale with a little nod, and snuggled against Crowley’s side.

“But you did cross the Channel for crepes,” Crowley pointed out.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale said primly, his head against Crowley’s shoulder, where Crowley couldn’t see his face.

“You did; I was there!”

“Mmm-hm. You were indeed.”

“Angel.” Crowley could feel the smugness radiating off of him. “Angel!” He pulled away enough to see his expression. “You really _are _a bastard,” he said, impressed.

Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you, my dear.” He patted Crowley’s thigh. “Are we going to watch the show or not?”)

Text conversation, Crowley’s phone, February 1, 2020

9:00pm (London time)

You: <I’m going to literally die and it’s your fault>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <There is zero chance that any of that sentence is true>

You: <Aziraphale liked your nail polish kit and now he’s making his own kit>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <I’m not seeing a problem>

You: <Imagine Aziraphale saying “My dear, I think the one called ‘Tootti Frootti Booty’ is a lovely shade”>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Laughing emoji>

You: <Yesterday he found one called Let Me See Your Bong. Listening to Aziraphale say “Let Me See Your Bong” is actually literally fatal.>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <More laughing emojis>

You: <And THEN he had to describe it, and I quote, “It’s—what is that lovely word the children are using? Ah yes, ‘_trippy_.’”>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Even more laughing emojis>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <I bet you invented inappropriate nail polish names>

You: …

Reya5Stripes4Life: <YOU DID DIDNT YOU>

You: …

You: <Might have given someone a nudge in that direction at some point>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <so many laughing emojis>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <So what color are your nails right now? Send me a pic>

You: <It’s called Bling of Fire>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Send me a pic>

You: <Imagine Aziraphale saying “Bling of Fire.” Repeatedly. My lungs still aren’t working right.>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <SEND ME A PIC U DORK>

You: <image sent>

(“Crowley, you simply must come see this shade,” called Aziraphale. “It’s called ‘Baby Got Smack.’ Charming, don’t you think?”

Crowley choked on his wine.)

Text conversation, Crowley’s phone, February 14, 2020

7:45pm (London time)

Kami the Nerd: <Happy Valentine’s Day!>

You: <Saint Valentine was beaten, beheaded, secretly buried, and secretly un-buried, and you humans celebrate by giving each other flowers and chocolate.>

Kami the Nerd: <eyeroll emoji>

Kami the Nerd: <You got that from a meme.>

You: <I invented memes!>

Kami the Nerd: <Really?>

You: <A little. I got a commendation for it, anyway.>

Kami the Nerd: <What did you get Aziraphale?>

You: <Nosy.>

Kami the Nerd: <I’m a 16-year-old girl, it’s in the job description.>

You: <eyeroll emoji>

You: <flowers and chocolate>

You: <What did you get Maya?>

Kami the Nerd: <A book>

You: <How romantic>

Kami the Nerd: <Shut up. It’s an art thing. She’s wanted it for a long time.>

You: <Aziraphale says to tell you it sounds like a lovely gift, and we wish you a delightful Valentine’s Day, with whatever chocolates you like best.>

Kami the Nerd: <Thanks, Aziraphale! You’re a sweetheart! So are you, Crowley.>

You: <Yuck, I’m a demon, not a sweetheart!>

Kami the Nerd: <Whatever. Btw, my dad found out his new favorite newscaster is a lesbian, and it’s kind of blowing his mind.>

You: <That’s interesting.>

Kami the Nerd: <Yep! Also, y’all have to come to Maya’s art show in May!>

8:05pm

You: <Happy Valentine’s Day>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Didn’t St. Valentine get beaten up and beheaded and like secretly buried or something? And we celebrate by giving each other flowers and chocolate?>

You: <You got that from a meme>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <eyeroll emoji>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <I bet you invented memes>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <What did you get Aziraphale?>

You: <Nosy>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <I’m a 16-year-old girl; it’s in the job description>

You: <A book>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <How romantic>

You: <It is if you’ve met him. Which you have. What did you get Kami?>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <I did a sketch of her dog and her cat>

You: <Well that’s not fair, I can’t even make fun of that.>

You: <Aziraphale says that sounds simply beautiful, and we wish you a lovely Valentine’s Day with flowers or chocolate of your choice.>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Thanks Aziraphale! Happy Valentine’s Day to you too!>

You: <I don’t get a Happy Valentine’s Day???>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Oh shut up. Btw, Kami’s mom got her dad one of those books that Aziraphale…whatever Aziraphale did. She told him it’s so he can understand some cousin or someone better, but I’m pretty sure she’s low-key joined the conspiracy.>

You: <Good for her.>

Maya DRAWZZZZ: <Happy Valentine’s Day!>

8:35pm

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Did you get Aziraphale the nail polish???>

You: <Did I mention that I’m going to die and it’s your fault?>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <So he liked it?>

You: <I just finished doing his nails in “Not-That-Kind-of-Whipped Cream”>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <I’m sure he doesn’t know what that means>

You: <OH YES HE DOES>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Laughing emojis>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <What did he do yours in?>

You: <I don’t want to talk about it>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <YES YOU DOOOO>

You: <It’s “Devil With No Blue Dress On”>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <D’awww, you two are so romantic! Send me a pic>

You: <eyeroll emoji>

You: <image sent>

You: <btw, I heard you’re dating Alex now>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Nosy>

You: <send me a pic>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <image sent>

You: <Aziraphale says that you’re a very handsome couple, and we wish you a wonderful Valentine’s Day, and that even if the original Saint Valentine was treated poorly, that’s no reason to avoid celebrating love in the present. And he says I have to tell you thank you very kindly for the nail polish suggestions.>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Thanks, Happy V-Day! Hey, y’all need to come to the art show in May!>

You: <Oh we’re coming. Wouldn’t miss it.>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Be sure you stay long enough to come over for supper again. My grandma wants to see you. I think she has a crush on Aziraphale.>

You: <HE’S TAKEN>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Don’t worry; so’s she. She just wants to feed him tamales and listen to him talk in “that nice old-fashioned Spanish”>

You: <He’s old-fashioned no matter what language he’s talking>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <Ooh, you’re jealous. That’s cute.>

You: <I’m a demon, I’m NOT cute>

Reya5Stripes4Life: <many, many laughing emojis>

9:05pm

Professor KC: <If you send me that meme about Saint Valentine being beheaded, I’ll send your phone a virus.>

You: <Happy V-Day to you too>

Professor KC: <What did Aziraphale get you?>

You: <Flowers.>

Professor KC: <I’m sure that’s not all.>

You: <A record. That’s like a CD, only bigger and made of vinyl>

Professor KC: <Don’t be ridiculous, I know what a record is. What else?>

You: <A picture. You didn’t even ask what I got him.>

Professor KC: <eyeroll emoji>

Professor KC: <Fine, what did you get him?>

You: <Pajamas>

Professor KC: <How romantic>

You: <It is, actually>

Professor KC: <Wait, is that his first set of pajamas?>

You: <It’s his first that aren’t tartan. They’re striped.>

Professor KC: <How daring.>

You: <You’ve met him.>

Professor KC: <Are they flannel?>

You: <Of course they’re flannel.>

Professor KC: <I bet you got him at least five other things.>

You: <I hear Operation Human Option is progressing.>

Professor KC: <Yep. And coughing fits have been at 0 for the past 2 weeks.>

You: <Good to hear. Aziraphale says...actually the same thing as me, for once>

You: <AND he says to have a lovely Valentine’s Day if you choose to celebrate it, and regardless of whether you do, he hopes your weekend is full of the things you like best.>

Professor KC: <Thanks, Aziraphale! Oh, y’all definitely need to come to the art exhibit in May.>

You: <We’re COMING. We promise.>

(The table in the back room held two bottles of wine—they’d each gotten each other wine—and two bouquets that could have been an artist’s subject for a study in contrasts. In fact, they would be soon; Crowley had taken a picture to send to Maya. Aziraphale gently lowered the needle onto a record that he, and nobody else on the planet, would call “bebop.” Propped up nearby was the record’s cover, which was addressed “to A. J. Crowley” and held a number of signatures. He carefully selected a chocolate, picked up his new book, and joined Crowley on the couch, under a newly framed photograph of the Horsehead Nebula.)

May 2020, Atlanta

An angel and a demon meandered through a crowded university exhibit hall.

“She said we’d know which display was hers.” Aziraphale stood on tiptoe in a vain attempt to see more of the room.

“Well, I don’t see how,” Crowley complained. “There’s what, twenty or thirty different kids’ portfoling, portfall…pitfall—big packs of art. How’re we supposed to know which one’s hers? Typical artist, thinking everyone can see the difference between styles or personal influences or whatever it is.”

“My dear, you’ve no idea what a typical artist is like.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s hand, which was tucked neatly into the crook of his elbow.

Crowley sputtered. “I’ve known at least as many artists as you have! And _you’re _not the one who’s got the signed Mona Lisa sketch from Leo.”

“But that’s precisely my point, Crowley; Leo was hardly typic—_ohhh_.”

“Wha—ngk,” said Crowley.

They both came to a halt in the middle of the floor.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said faintly. “I—I see why she said we’d know which was hers.”

“Uh-huh,” said Crowley.

For a moment, it was like being back in Maya’s basement looking at their memories.

Maya’s submission was called “Lifetimes I’ve Loved You.”

It had seven paintings, each done in a different historical style, but each with the same two figures—one tall, slim, with dark clothing and red hair, the other shorter, rounder, with light-colored clothes and blonde hair.

In six paintings, the two figures never reached each other. In a Roman mosaic, the red-haired one gazed in surprise at the blonde-haired one, who looked away shyly. In a Renaissance style, they were pulled apart by opposing forces in a morality play. In an Impressionist painting, they faced away from each other, both wearing top hats and expressions of mingled anger and grief. In an Art Deco portrait, the blonde-haired figure stared after the red-haired one, reaching an unheeded hand toward his back.

But the seventh—the seventh was done in Maya’s own style, its soft and glowing background showing what Crowley knew to be a breakfast café specializing in Southern classics and also new favorites, decorated with twinkle lights and handmade Christmas ornaments. And in its exquisitely detailed foreground, the red-haired and the blonde-haired figure were joined in a kiss.

Crowley swallowed.

Aziraphale pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.

“There you are!” An American teenager’s voice and a sheet of blonde hair collided with them. Crowley and Aziraphale both rocked backward and then awkwardly patted Kami’s shoulders until she released them from her hug. “Isn’t it great?” she said happily, gesturing at the paintings. “She’s so good.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, still looking a bit dazed, “Yes. They’re…goodness.” He paused and drew himself together. “Hello, my dear,” he said, summoning his beaming smile and bestowing it on Kami. “How are you? And where _is _Miss Maya? We should very much like to see her as well.”

“Oh, the contestants aren’t allowed in. But Reya and Kasey are somewhere”—

Reya and Kasey, on cue, emerged from the crowd. Kasey nodded to both Aziraphale and Crowley. Reya hugged Aziraphale, smirked at Crowley when he demanded to know why he didn’t get a hug, then hugged him also. Conversation ensued, though Aziraphale’s eyes kept straying to the paintings. Crowley’s did too, although he assumed his sunglasses hid this (he was wrong). It was Reya who eventually suggested that the girls leave Crowley and Aziraphale alone with the paintings.

Their trip to Atlanta lasted longer than they expected. It turned out that Kasey and her mother were due to fly to England for the summer of anthropological (and occult) research in just over a week, and Aziraphale suggested that he and Crowley lengthen their stay “so as to accompany them and ease their arrival.” Crowley wasn’t deceived by this; besides tamales at Reya’s, Atlanta held hundreds of new-to-Aziraphale restaurants to sample. This meant that they were still in town when Maya got news that she had won third place in the art scholarship competition (“_Third_?” Crowley spluttered indignantly, despite Maya’s repeated reassurances that it didn’t matter, since the top five finishers all received scholarships). They even met Kami’s parents, who, to Crowley’s slight disappointment, did not appear to be in need of any additional terrorizing (they spoke a bit awkwardly but very proudly of the accomplishments of “our daughter’s, um, girlfriend—she’s an artist, very talented”).

“Does that mean,” Crowley said in the middle of a lunch (at a place described as “local and delightfully quirky”), “that Maya was taking pictures the entire time Kasey was making us show our memories together?”

“Well, I’ve no idea,” Aziraphale shrugged, savoring a bite of something called “shrimp ‘n’ grits.”

“You’d think we’d have noticed her having her phone out the whole time, wouldn’t we?”

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I certainly wasn’t looking at her at the time.”

“…Ehh,” said Crowley. “Neither was I, now you mention it. Point taken.”

A few months later, London

Crowley sat bolt upright in bed. “Soccer!”

Aziraphale, comfortable beside him in striped pajamas, looked up from his book. Somewhere to his right, a mug of cocoa had long since grown cold. “For Heaven’s _sake_, Crowley.”

“It’s the American word for football.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Go back to sleep, dear.”

“Mmmmmm,” said Crowley, flopping back down and burrowing his head against the angel’s soft, flannel-clad side. Then he thought better of that and draped himself over Aziraphale more securely, black silk tangling with cream-and-baby-blue stripes. Aziraphale shifted a bit, then Crowley felt fingers run gently through his hair, a delicate kiss dropped on the top of his head.

Crowley, melting, looked up into his face, with what he’d been assured were puppy-dog eyes. Aziraphale pressed his lips together disapprovingly. “You’re distracting me.”

“Mmm-hm.”

Aziraphale sighed again, closed his book and set it down. Soft, warm fingers tilted Crowley’s chin up; soft, warm lips met his.

The kiss lasted long enough for Crowley’s limbs to finish melting. Aziraphale pulled back, the slimmest fraction of an inch between their lips.

“I love you, my dear,” he murmured.

“Mmmmm,” Crowley replied, and closed the distance between them again. “Love you too, angel.”

**~fin~**

Maya's portfolio (by [thelasthomelyurl)](https://thelasthomelyurl.tumblr.com):

In a Roman mosaic, the red-haired one gazed in surprise at the blonde-haired one, who looked away shyly.

In a Renaissance style, they were pulled apart by opposing forces in a morality play.

In an Impressionist painting, they faced away from each other, both wearing top hats and expressions of mingled anger and grief.

In an Art Deco portrait, the blonde-haired figure stared after the red-haired one, reaching an unheeded hand toward his back.

But the seventh—the seventh was done in Maya’s own style, its soft and glowing background showing what Crowley knew to be a breakfast café specializing in Southern classics and also new favorites, decorated with twinkle lights and handmade Christmas ornaments. And in its exquisitely detailed foreground, the red-haired and the blonde-haired figure were joined in a kiss.


	9. "Sequel" Available!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just letting anyone know who subscribed to Slumber Party Summons that I'm posting a new work in this 'verse, called After the Party! See the chapter body for the link.

Hi folks, I decided to do some of the Tumblr holiday prompts (by drawlight and soft-angel-aziraphale) and set the ficlets within this story! Here's the link:

[After the Party](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640981/chapters/51604294)

It starts the evening after our Ineffables' breakfast in Atlanta.


End file.
